W.  SOMERSET  MAU< 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

W.     SOMERSET     MAUGHAM 


SIXPENCE 

W.  SOMERSET  MAUGHAM  > 
AvxiivaT  of  "Of  Human  Bondage" 


GROSSET  &.  DUNLAP 
VxMisKers 

by  arrangement  with 
GEORGE  H,  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,    1 91 9, 
BY  GEORGE   H.   DORAN    COMPANY 


THE   MOON  AND   SIXPENCE 


PRINTED   IN  THE    UNITED   STATES    OF   AMERICA 


Abo  Micp 
MAIN 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 


[ ;    095 


THE  MOON  AND 
SIXPENCE 

Chapter  I 

I  CONFESS  that  when  first  I  made  acquaintance 
with  Charles  Strickland  I  never  for  a  moment 
discerned  that  there  was  in  him  anything  out  of 
the  ordinary.  Yet  now  few  will  be  found  to  deny  his 
greatness.  I  do  not  speak  of  that  greatness  which  is 
achieved  by  the  fortunate  politician  or  the  successful 
soldier;  that  is  a  quality  which  belongs  to  the  place 
he  occupies  rather  than  to  the  man;  and  a  change  of 
circumstances  reduces  it  to  very  discreet  proportions. 
The  Prime  Minister  out  of  office  is  seen,  too  often, 
to  have  been  but  a  pompous  rhetorician,  and  the  Gen- 
eral without  an  army  is  but  the  tame  hero  of  a 
market  town.  The  greatness  of  Charles  Strickland 
was  authentic.  It  may  be  that  you  do  not  like  his  art, 
but  at  all  events  you  can  hardly  refuse  it  the  tribute 
of  your  interest.  He  disturbs  and  arrests.  The  time 
has  passed  when  he  was  an  object  of  ridicule,  and  it 
is  no  longer  a  mark  of  eccentricity  to  defend  or  of 
perversity  to  extol  him.  His  faults  are  accepted  as 
the  necessary  complement  to  his  merits.  It  is  still 
possible  to  discuss  his  place  in  art,  and  the  adulation 
of  his  admirers  is  perhaps  no  less  capricious  than  the 
disparagement  of  his  detractors;  but  one  thing  can 

7 


8  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

never  be  doubtful,  and  that  is  that  he  had  genius. 
To  my  mind  the  most  interesting  thing  in  art  is  the 
personality  of  the  artist;  and  if  that  is  singular,  I  am 
willing  to  excuse  a  thousand  faults.  I  suppose  Velas- 
quez was  a  better  painter  than  El  Greco,  but  custom 
stales  one's  admiration  for  him :  the  Cretan,  sensual 
and  tragic,  proffers  the  mystery  of  his  soul  like  a 
standing  sacrifice.  The  artist,  painter,  poet,  or  mu- 
sician, by  his  decoration,  sublime  or  beautiful,  satis- 
fies the  aesthetic  sense ;  but  that  is  akin  to  the  sexual 
instinct,  and  shares  its  barbarity:  he  lays  before  you 
also  the  greater  gift  of  himself.  To  pursue  his  secret 
has  something  of  the  fascination  of  a  detective  story. 
It  is  a  riddle  which  shares  with  the  universe  the 
merit  of  having  no  answer.  The  most  insignificant 
of  Strickland's  works  suggests  a  personality  which  is 
strange,  tormented,  and  complex;  and  it  is  this  surely 
which  prevents  even  those  who  do  not  like  his  pic- 
tures from  being  indifferent  to  them ;  it  is  this  which 
has  excited  so  curious  an  interest  in  his  life  and 
character. 

It  was  not  till  four  years  after  Strickland's  death 
that  Maurice  Huret  wrote  that  article  in  the  Mercure 
de  France  which  rescued  the  unknown  painter  from 
oblivion  and  blazed  the  trail  which  succeeding  writ- 
ers, with  more  or  less  docility,  have  followed.  For 
a  long  time  no  critic  has  enjoyed  in  France  a  more 
incontestable  authority,  and  it  was  impossible  not  to 
be  impressed  by  the  claims  he  made ;  they  seemed  ex- 
travagant; but  later  judgments  have  confirmed  his  es- 
timate, and  the  reputation  of  Charles  Stricklai»d  is 
now  firmly  established  on  the  lines  which  hp  laid 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  9 

down.  The  rise  of  this  reputation  is  one  of  the  most 
romantic  incidents  in  the  history  of  art.  But  I  do 
not  propose  to  deal  with  Charles  Strickland's  work 
except  in  so  far  as  it  touches  upon  his  character.  I 
cannot  agree  with  the  painters  who  claim  supercil- 
iously that  the  layman  can  understand  nothing  of 
painting,  and  that  he  can  best  show  his  appreciation 
of  their  works  by  silence  and  a  cheque-book.  It  is 
a  grotesque  misapprehension  which  sees  in  art  no 
more  than  a  craft  comprehensible  perfectly  only  to 
the  craftsman :  art  is  a  manifestation  of  emotion,  and 
emotion  speaks  a  language  that  all  may  understand. 
But  I  will  allow  that  the  critic  who  has  not  a  practical 
knowledge  of  technique  is  seldom  able  to  say  any- 
thing on  the  subject  of  real  value,  and  my  ignorance 
of  painting  is  extreme.  Fortunately,  there  is  no  need 
for  me  to  risk  the  adventure,  since  my  friend,  Mr. 
Edward  Leggatt,  an  able  writer  as  well  as  an  admir- 
able painter,  has  exhaustively  discussed  Charles 
Strickland's  work  in  a  little  book*  which  is  a  charm- 
ing example  of  a  style,  for  the  most  part,  less  happily 
cultivated  in  England  than  in  France. 

Maurice  Huret  in  his  famous  article  gave  an  out- 
line of  Charles  Strickland's  life  which  was  well  calcu- 
lated to  whet  the  appetites  of  the  inquiring.  With 
his  disinterested  passion  for  art,  he  had  a  real  desire 
to  call  the  attention  of  the  wise  to  a  talent  which  was 
in  the  highest  degree  original;  but  he  was  too  good 
a  journalist  to  be  unaware  that  the  "human  interest" 
would  enable  him  more  easily  to  effect  his  purpose. 

*  "A  Modern  Artist:  Notes  on  the  Work  of  Charles  Strick- 
land," by  Edward  Leggatt,  A.R.H.A.    Martin  Seeker,  1917. 


10  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

And  when  such  as  had  come  in  contact  with  Strickland 
in  the  past,  writers  who  had  known  him  in  London, 
painters  who  had  met  him  in  the  cafes  of  Montmar- 
tre,  discovered  to  their  amazement  that  where  they 
had  seen  but  an  unsuccessful  artist,  like  another,  au- 
thentic genius  had  rubbed  shoulders  with  them  there 
began  to  appear  in  the  magazines  of  France  and 
America  a  succession  of  articles,  the  reminiscences 
of  one,  the  appreciation  of  another,  which  added  to 
Strickland's  notoriety,  and  fed  without  satisfying  the 
curiosity  of  the  public.  The  subject  was  grateful, 
and  the  industrious  Weitbrecht-Rotholz  in  his  impos- 
ing monograph*  has  been  able  to  give  a  remarkable 
iist  of  authorities. 

The  faculty  for  myth  is  innate  in  the  human  race. 
It  seizes  with  avidity  upon  any  incidents,  surprising 
or  mysterious,  in  the  career  of  those  who  have  at  all 
distinguished  themselves  from  their  fellows,  and  in- 
vents a  legend  to  which  it  then  attaches  a  fanatical 
belief.  It  is  the  protest  of  romance  against  the  com- 
monplace of  life.  The  incidents  of  the  legend  be- 
come the  hero's  surest  passport  to  immortality.  The 
ironic  philosopher  reflects  with  a  smile  that  Sir  Wal- 
ter Raleigh  is  more  safely  inshrined  in  the  memory 
of  mankind  because  he  set  his  cloak  for  the  Virgin 
Queen  to  walk  on  than  because  he  carried  the  English 
name  to  undiscovered  countries.  Charles  Strickland 
lived  obscurely.  He  made  enemies  rather  than 
friends.    It  is  not  strange,  then,  that  those  who  wrote 

*  "Karl  Strickland:  sein  Leben  und  seine  Kunst,"  by  Hugo 
Weitbrecht-Rotholz,  Ph.D.  Schwingel  und  Hanisch.  Leip- 
zig, 1914. 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  H 

of  him  should  have  eked  out  their  scanty  recollections 
with  a  lively  fancy,  and  it  is  evident  that  there  was 
enough  in  the  little  that  was  known  of  him  to  give 
opportunity  to  the  romantic  scribe;  there  was  much 
in  his  life  which  was  strange  and  terrible,  in  his  char- 
acter something  outrageous,  and  in  his  fate  not  a  lit- 
tle that  was  pathetic.  In  due  course  a  legend  arose 
of  such  circumstantiaHty  that  the  wise  historian 
would  hesitate  to  attack  it. 

Bnt  a  wise  historian  is  precisely  what  the  Rev. 
Robert  Strickland  is  not.  He  wrote  his  biogra- 
phy* avowedly  to  "remove  certain  misconceptions 
which  had  gained  currency"  in  regard  to  the  later 
part  of  his  father's  life,  and  which  had  "caused  con- 
siderable pain  to  persons  still  living."  It  is  obvious 
that  there  was  much  in  the  commonly  received  account 
of  Strickland's  life  to  embarrass  a  respectable  family. 
I  have  read  this  work  with  a  good  deal  of  amuse- 
ment, and  upon  this  I  congratulate  myself,  since  it 
is  colourless  and  dull.  Mr.  Strickland  has  drawn  the 
portrait  of  an  excellent  husband  and  father,  a  man 
of  kindly  temper,  industrious  habits,  and  moral  dis- 
position. The  modern  clergyman  has  acquired  in 
his  study  of  the  science  which  I  believe  is  called 
exegesis  an  astonishing  facility  for  explaining  things 
away,  but  the  subtlety  with  which  tht  Rev.  Robert 
Strickland  has  "interpreted"  all  the  facts  in  his 
father's  life  which  a  dutiful  son  might  find  it  incon- 
venient to  remember  must  surely  lead  him  in  the  full- 
ness of  time  to  the  highest  dignities  of  the  Church. 

♦  "Strickland:  The  Man  and  His  Work,"  by  his  son,  Robert 
Strickland,    Wm.  Heinemann,  1913. 


IS  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

I  see  already  his  muscular  calves  encased  m  the  gait- 
ers episcopal.  It  was  a  hazardous,  though  maybe  a 
gallant  thing  to  do,  since  it  is  probable  that  the  legend 
commonly  received  has  had  no  small  share  in  the 
growth  of  Strickland's  reputation;  for  there  are  many 
who  have  been  attracted  to  his  art  by  the  detestation 
in  which  they  held  his  character  or  the  compassion 
with  which  they  regarded  his  death;  and  the  son's 
well-meaning  efforts  threw  a  singular  chill  upon  the 
father's  admirers.  It  is  due  to  no  accident  that  when 
one  of  his  most  important  works,  The  Woman  of 
Samaria,'^  was  sold  at  Christie's  shortly  after  the  dis- 
cussion which  followed  the  publication  of  Mr.  Strick- 
land's biography,  it  fetched  £235  less  than  it  had 
done  nine  months  before  when  it  was  bought  by  the 
distinguished  collector  whose  sudden  death  had 
brought  it  once  more  under  the  hammer.  Perhaps 
Charles  Strickland's  power  and  originality  would 
scarcely  have  sufficed  to  turn  the  scale  if  the  remark- 
able mythopoeic  faculty  of  mankind  had  not  brushed 
aside  with  impatience  a  story  which  disappointed  all 
its  craving  for  the  extraordinary.  And  presently  Dr. 
Weitbrecht-Rotholz  produced  the  work  which  finally 
set  at  rest  the  misgivings  of  all  lovers  of  art. 

Dr.  Weitbrecht-Rotholz  belongs  to  that  school  of 
historians  which  believes  that  human  nature  is  not 
only  about  as  bad  as  it  can  be,  but  a  great  deal  worse ; 
and  certainly  the  reader  is  safer  of  entertainment  in 

*  This  was  described  in  Christie's  catalogue  as  follows:  "A 
nude  woman,  a  native  of  the  Society  Islands,  is  lying  on  the 
ground  beside  a  brook.  Behind  is  a  tropical  landscape  with 
palm-trees,  bananas,  etc.    60  in.  x  48  in." 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  IS 

their  hands  than  in  those  of  the  writers  who  take  a 
malicious  pleasure  in  representing  the  great  figures 
of  romance  as  patterns  of  the  domestic  virtues.  For 
my  part,  I  shouFd  be  sorry  to  think  that  there  was 
nothing  between  Anthony  and  Cleopatra  but  an  eco- 
nomic situation ;  and  it  will  require  a  great  deal  more 
evidence  than  is  ever  likely  to  be  available,  thank 
God,  to  persuade  me  that  Tiberius  was  as  blameless 
a  monarch  as  King  George  V.  Dr.  Weitbrecht- 
Rotholz  has  dealt  in  such  terms  with  the  Rev.  Robert 
Strickland's  innocent  biography  that  it  is  difficult  to 
avoid  feeling  a  certain  sympathy  for  the  unlucky 
parson.  His  decent  reticence  is  branded  as  hypocrisy, 
his  circumlocutions  are  roundly  called  lies,  and  his 
silence  is  vilified  as  treachery.  And  on  the  strength 
of  peccadillos,  reprehensible  in  an  author,  but  excusa- 
ble in  a  son,  the  Anglo-Saxon  race  is  accused  of  prud- 
ishness,  humbug,  pretentiousness,  deceit,  cunning, 
and  bad  cooking.  Personally  I  think  it  was  rash  of 
Mr.  Strickland,  in  refuting  the  account  which  had 
gained  belief  of  a  certain  * 'unpleasantness"  between 
his  father  and  mother,  to  state  that  Charles  Strick- 
land in  a  letter  written  from  Paris  had  described  her 
as  "an  excellent  woman,"  since  Dr.  Weitbrecht- 
Rotholz  was  able  to  print  the  letter  in  facsimile,  and 
it  appears  that  the  passage  referred  to  ran  in  fact  as 
follows:  God  damn  my  wife.  She  is  an  excellent 
woman.  I  wish  she  was  in  hell.  It  Is  not  thus  that  the 
Church  In  Its  great  days  dealt  with  evidence  that  was 
unwelcome. 

Dr.  Weitbrecht-Rotholz  was  an  enthusiastic  ad- 
mirer of  Charles  Strickland,  and  there  was  no  dan- 


14  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

ger  that  he  would  whitewash  him.  He  had  an 
unerring  eye  for  the  despicable  motive  in  actions  that 
had  all  the  appearance  of  innocence.  He  was  a 
psycho-pathologist,  as  well  as  a  student  of  art,  and 
the  subconscious  had  few  secrets  from  him.  No 
mystic  ever  saw  deeper  meaning  In  common  things. 
The  mystic  sees  the  ineffable,  and  the  psycho-pathol- 
ogist the  unspeakable.  There  is  a  singular  fascina- 
tion in  watching  the  eagerness  with  which  the  learned 
author  ferrets  out  every  circumstance  which  may 
throw  discredit  on  his  hero.  His  heart  warms  to  him 
when  he  can  bring  forward  some  example  of  cruelty, 
or  meanness,  and  he  exults  like  an  Inquisitor  at  the 
auto  da  fe  of  an  heretic  when  with  some  forgotten 
story  he  can  confound  the  filial  piety  of  the  Rev. 
'Robert  Strickland.  His  industry  has  been  amazing. 
Nothing  has  been  too  small  to  escape  him,  and  you 
may  be  sure  that  If  Charles  Strickland  left  a  laun- 
dry bill  unpaid  It  will  be  given  you  in  extenso,  and  if 
he  forebore  to  return  a  borrowed  half-crown  no  de- 
tail of  the  transaction  will  be  omitted. 


Chapter  II 

WHEN  so  much  has  been  written  about 
Charles  Strickland,  it  may  seem  unnecessary 
that  I  should  write  more.  A  painter's  mon- 
ument is  his  work.  It  is  true  I  knew  him  more  inti- 
mately than  most:  I  met  him  first  before  ever  he 
became  a  painter,  and  I  saw  him  not  infrequently  dur- 
ing the  difficult  years  he  spent  in  Paris;  but  I  do  not 
suppose  I  should  ever  have  set  down  my  recollections 
if  the  hazards  of  the  war  had  not  taken  me  to  Tahiti. 
There,  as  is  notorious,  he  spent  the  last  years  of 
his  life;  and  there  I  came  across  persons  who  were 
familiar  with  him.  I  find  myself  in  a  position  to 
throw  light  on  just  that  part  of  his  tragic  career 
which  has  remained  most  obscure.  If  they  who  be- 
lieve in  Strickland's  greatness  are  right,  the  personal 
narratives  of  such  as  knew  him  in  the  flesh  can  hardly 
be  superfluous.  What  would  we  not  give  for  the 
reminiscences  of  someone  who  had  been  as  intimately 
acquainted  with  El  Greco  as  I  was  with  Strickland? 
But  I  seek  refuge;  in  no  such  excuses.  I  forget 
who  it  was  that  recommended  men  for  their  soul's 
good  to  do  each  day  two  things  they  disliked :  it  was 
a  wise  man,  and  it  is  a  precept  that  I  have  followed 
scrupulously;  for  every  day  I  have  got  up  and  I 
have  gone  to  bed.  But  there  is  in  my  nature  a  strain 
of  asceticism,  and  I  have  subjected  my  flesh  each  week 
to  a  more  severe  mortification.  I  have  never  failed 
to  read  the  Literary  Supplement  of  The  Times.     It 

15 


16  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

is  a  salutary  discipline  to  consider  the  vast  number 
of  books  that  are  written,  the  fair  hopes  with  which 
their  authors  see  them  published,  and  the  fate  which 
awaits  them.  What  chance  is  there  that  any  book 
will  make  its  way  among  that  multitude  ?  And  the 
successful  books  are  but  the  successes  of  a  season. 
Heaven  knows  what  pains  the  author  has  been  at, 
what  bitter  experiences  he  has  endured  and  what 
heartache  suffered,  to  give  some  chance  reader  a 
few  hours'  relaxation  or  to  while  away  the  tedium 
of  a  journey.  And  if  I  may  judge  from  the  reviews, 
many  of  these  books  are  well  and  carefully  written; 
much  thought  has  gone  to  their  composition ;  to  some 
even  has  been  given  the  anxious  labour  of  a  lifetime. 
The  moral  I  draw  is  that  the  writer  should  seek  his 
reward  In  the  pleasure  of  his  work  and  in  release 
from  the  burden  of  his  thought;  and,  indifferent  to 
aught  else,  care  nothing  for  praise  or  censure,  failure 
or  success. 

Now  the  war  has  come,  bringing  with  it  a  new 
attitude.  Youth  has  turned  to  gods  we  of  an  earlier 
day  knew  not,  and  it  is  possible  to  see  already  the 
direction  in  which  those  who  come  after  us  will  move. 
The  younger  generation,  conscious  of  strength  and 
tumultuous,  have  done  with  knocking  at  the  door; 
they  have  burst  In  and  seated  themselves  In  our 
seats.  The  air  Is  noisy  with  their  shouts.  Of 
their  elders  some,  by  imitating  the  antics  of  youth, 
strive  to  persuade  themselves  that  their  day  is  not 
yet  over;  they  shout  with  the  lustiest,  but  the  war 
cry  sounds  hollow  In  their  mouth;  they  are  like  poor 
wantons  attempting  with  pencil,  paint  and  powder. 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  17 

with  shrill  gaiety,  to  recover  the  illusion  of  their 
spring.  The  wiser  go  their  way  with  a  decent  grace. 
In  their  chastened  smile  is  an  indulgent  mockery. 
They  remember  that  they  too  trod  down  a  sated 
generation,  with  just  such  clamor  and  with  just  such 
scorn,  and  they  foresee  that  these  brave  torch-bear- 
ers will  presently  yield  their  place  also.  There  is 
no  last  word.  The  new  evangel  was  old  when 
Nineveh  reared  her  greatness  to  the  sky.  These  gal- 
lant words  which  seem  so  novel  to  those  that  speak 
them  were  said  in  accents  scarcely  changed  a  hun- 
dred times  before.  The  pendulum  swings  back- 
wards and  forwards.  The  circle  is  ever  travelled 
anew. 

Sometimes  a  man  survives  a  considerable  time  from 
an  era  in  which  he  had  his  place  into  one  which  is 
strange  to  him,  and  then  the  curious  are  offered  one 
of  the  most  singular  spectacles  in  the  human  comedy. 
Who  now,  for  example,  thinks  of  George  Crabbe? 
He  was  a  famous  poet  in  his  day,  and  the  world 
recognised  his  genius  with  a  unanimity  which  the 
greater  complexity  of  modern  life  has  rendered  In- 
frequent. He  had  learnt  his  craft  at  the  school  of 
'Alexander  Pope,  and  he  wrote  moral  stories  in 
rhymed  couplets.  Then  came  the  French  Revolu- 
tion and  the  Napoleonic  Wars,  and  the  poets  sang 
new  songs.  Mr.  Crabbe  continued  to  write  moral 
stories  in  rhymed  couplets.  I  think  he  must  have 
read  the  verse  of  these  young  men  who  were  mak- 
ing so  great  a  stir  in  the  world,  and  I  fancy  he 
found  It  poor  stuff.  Of  course,  much  of  it  was.  But 
the  odes  of  Keats  and  of  Wordsworth,  a  poem  or 


18  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

two  by  Coleridge,  a  few  more  by  Shelley,  discov- 
ered vast  realms  of  the  spirit  that  none  had  explored 
before.  Mr.  Crabbe  was  as  dead  as  mutton,  but 
Mr.  Crabbe  continued  to  write  moral  stories  in 
rhymed  couplets.  I  have  read  desultorily  the  writ- 
ings of  the  younger  generation.  It  may  be  that 
among  them  a  more  fervid  Keats,  a  more  ethereal 
Shelley,  has  already  published  numbers  the  world 
will  willingly  remember.  I  cannot  tell.  I  admire 
their  polish — their  youth  is  already  so  accomplished 
that  it  seems  absurd  to  speak  of  promise — I  marvel 
at  the  felicity  of  their  style;  but  with  all  their  copi- 
ousness (their  vocabulary  suggests  that  they  fingered 
Roget's  Thesaurus  in  their  cradles)  they  say  nothing 
to  me;  to  my  mind  they  know  too  much  and  feel 
too  obviously;  I  cannot  stomach  the  heartiness  witH 
which  they  slap  me  on  the  back  or  the  emotion  with 
which  they  hurl  themselves  on  my  bosom;  their  pas- 
sion seems  to  me  a  little  anaemic  and  their  dreams 
a  trifle  dull.  I  do  not  like  them.  I  am  on  the 
shelf.  I  will  continue  to  write  moral  stories  in 
rhymed  couplets.  But  I  should  be  thrice  a  fool 
if  I  did  it  for  aught  but  my  own  entertainment 


Chapter  IH 

BUT  all  this  is  by  the  way. 
I  was  very  young  when  I  wrote  my  first 
book. 

By  a  lucky  chance  it  excited  attention,  and  var- 
ious persons  sought  my  acquaintance. 

It  is  not  without  melancholy  that  I  wander  among 
my  recollections  of  the  world  of  letters  in  London 
when  first,  bashful  but  eager,  I  was  introduced  to  it. 
It  is  long  since  I  frequented  it,  and  if  the  novels  that 
describe  its  present  singularities  are  accurate  much 
in  it  is  now  changed.  The  venue  is  different.  Chelsea 
and  Bloomsbury  have  taken  the  place  of  Hamp- 
stead,  Notting  Hill  Gate,  and  High  Street,  Kensing- 
ton. Then  it  was  a  distinction  to  be  under  forty, 
but  now  to  be  more  than  twenty-five  is  absurd.  I 
think  in  those  days  we  were  a  little  shy  of  our  emo- 
tions, and  the  fear  of  ridicule  tempered  the  more 
obvious  forms  of  pretentiousness.  I  do  not  believe 
that  there  was  in  that  genteel  Bohemia  an  intensive 
culture  of  chastity,  but  I  do  not  remember  so  crude 
a  promiscuity  as  seems  to  be  practised  in  the  present 
day.  We  did  not  think  it  hypocritical  to  draw  over 
our  vagaries  the  curtain  of  a  decent  silence.  The 
spade  was  not  invariably  called  a  bloody  shovel. 
Woman  had  not  yet  altogether  come  into  her  own. 

I  lived  near  Victoria  Station,  and  I  recall  long 
excursions  by  bus  to  the  hospitable  houses  of  the 
literary.     In  my  timidity  I  wandered  up  and  down 

19 


so  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

the  street  while  I  screwed  up  my  courage  to  ring 
the  bell;  and  then,  sick  with  apprehension,  was  ush- 
ered into  an  airles'">  room  full  of  people.  I  was 
introduced  to  this  celebrated  person  after  that  one, 
and  the  kind  words  they  said  about  my  book  made 
me  excessively  uncomfortable.  I  felt  they  expected 
me  to  say  clever  things,  and  I  never  could  think  of 
any  till  after  the  party  was  over.  I  tried  to  conceal 
my  embarrassment  by  handing  round  cups  of  tea 
and  rather  ill-cut  bread-and-butter.  I  wanted  no  one 
to  take  notice  of  me,  so  that  I  could  observe  these 
famous  creatures  at  my  ease  and  listen  to  the  clever 
things  they  said. 

I  have  a  recollection  of  large,  unbending  women 
with  great  noses  and  rapacious  eyes,  who  wore  their 
clothes  as  though  they  were  armour;  and  of  little, 
mouse-like  spinsters,  with  soft  voices  and  a  shrewd 
glance.  I  never  ceased  to  be  fascinated  by  their 
persistence  in  eating  buttered  toast  with  their  gloves 
on,  and  I  observed  with  admiration  the  unconcern 
with  which  they  wiped  their  fingers  on  their  chair 
When  they  thought  no  one  was  looking.  It  must 
liave  been  bad  for  the  furniture,  but  I  suppose  the 
hostess  took  her  revenge  on  the  furniture  of  her 
friends  when,  in  turn,  she  visited  them.  Some  of 
them  were  dressed  fashionably,  and  they  said  they 
couldn't  for  the  life  of  them  see  why  you  should 
be  dowdy  just  because  you  had  written  a  novel;  if 
you  had  a  neat  figure  you  might  as  well  make  the 
most  of  it,  and  a  smart  shoe  on  a  small  foot  had 
never  prevented  an  editor  from  taking  your  "stuff." 
But  others  thought  this  frivolous,   and  they  wore 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  21 

"art  fabrics"  and  barbaric  jewelry.  The  men  were 
seldom  eccentric  in  appearance.  They  tried  to  look 
as  little  like  authors  as  possible.  They  wished  to 
be  taken  for  men  of  the  world,  and  could  have 
passed  anywhere  for  the  managing  clerks  of  a  city 
firm.  They  always  seemed  a  little  tired.  I  had 
never  known  writers  before,  and  I  found  them  very 
strange,  but  I  do  not  think  they  ever  seemed  to  me 
quite  real. 

I  remember  that  I  thought  their  conversation  bril- 
liant, and  I  used  to  listen  with  astonishment  to  the 
stinging  humour  with  which  they  would  tear  a 
brother-author  to  pieces  the  moment  that  his  back  was 
turned.  The  artist  has  this  advantage  over  the  rest 
of  the  world,  that  his  friends  offer  not  only  their 
appearance  and  their  character  to  his  satire,  but  also 
their  work.  I  despaired  of  ever  expressing  myself 
with  such  aptness  or  with  such  fluency.  In  those 
days  conversation  was  still  cultivated  as  an  art;  a 
neat  repartee  was  more  highly  valued  than  the  crack- 
ling of  thorns  under  a  pot;  and  the  epigram,  not 
yet  a  mechanical  appliance  by  which  the  dull  may 
achieve  a  semblance  of  wit,  gave  sprlghtliness  to 
the  small  talk  of  the  urbane.  It  is  sad  that  I  can 
remember  nothing  of  all  this  scintillation.  But  I 
think  the  conversation  never  settled  down  so  com- 
fortably as  when  it  turned  to  the  details  of  the  trade 
which  was  the  other  side  of  the  art  we  practised. 
When  we  had  done  discussing  the  merits  of  the  latest 
book,  it  was  natural  to  wonder  how  many  copies 
had  been  sold,  what  advance  the  author  had  re- 
ceived, and  how  much  he  was  likely  to  make  out 


SS  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

of  it.  Then  we  would  speak  of  this  publisher  and 
of  that,  comparing  the  generosity  of  one  with  the 
meanness  of  another;  we  would  argue  whether  it 
was  better  to  go  to  one  who  gave  handsome  royal- 
ties or  to  another  who  "pushed"  a  book  for  all  it 
was  worth.  Some  advertised  badly  and  some  well. 
Some  were  modern  and  some  were  old-fashioned. 
Then  we  would  talk  of  agents  and  the  offers  they; 
had  obtained  for  us ;  of  editors  and  the  sort  of  con- 
tributions they  welcomed,  how  much  they  paid  a) 
thousand,  and  whether  they  paid  promptly  or  other- 
wise. To  me  it  was  all  very  romantic.  It  gave  me 
an  intimate  sense  of  being  a  member  of  some  mystic 
brotherhood. 


Chapter  IV 

NO  one  was  kinder  to  me  at  that  time  than  Rose 
Waterford.  She  combined  a  masculine  intel- 
ligence with  a  feminine  perversity,  and  the 
novels  she  wrote  were  original  and  disconcerting. 
It  was  at  her  house  one  day  that  I  met  Charles  Strick- 
land's wife.  Miss  Waterford  was  giving  a  tea-party, 
and  her  small  room  was  more  than  usually  full. 
Everyone  seemed  to  be  talking,  and  I,  sitting  in  si- 
lence, felt  awkward;  but  I  was  too  shy  to  break  into 
any  of  the  groups  that  seemed  absorbed  in  their  own 
affairs.  Miss  Waterford  was  a  good  hostess,  and 
seeing  my  embarrassment  came  up  to  me. 

"I  want  you  to  talk  to  Mrs.  Strickland,"  she  said. 
"She's  raving  about  your  book," 

"What  does  she  do?"  I  asked. 

I  was  conscious  of  my  ignorance,  and  if  Mrs. 
Strickland  was  a  well-known  writer  I  thought  it  as 
well  to  ascertain  the  fact  before  I  spoke  to  her. 

Rose  Waterford  cast  down  her  eyes  demurely  to 
give  greater  effect  to  her  reply. 

"She  gives  luncheon-parties.  You've  only  got  to 
roar  a  little,  and  she'll  ask  you." 

Rose  Waterford  was  a  cynic.  She  looked  upon 
life  as  an  opportunity  for  writing  novels  and  the 
public  as  her  raw  material.  Now  and  then  she  in- 
vited members  of  it  to  her  house  if  they  showed  an 
appreciation  of  her  talent  and  entertained  with  proper 
lavishness.     She  held  their  weakness  for  lions  in 

23 


24  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

good-humoured  contempt,  but  played  to  them  her 
part  of  the  distinguished  woman  of  letters  with 
decorum. 

I  was  led  up  to  Mrs.  Strickland,  and  for  ten 
minutes  we  talked  together.  I  noticed  nothing  about 
her  except  that  she  had  a  pleasant  voice.  She  had 
a  flat  in  Westminster,  overlooking  the  unfinished 
cathedral,  and  because  we  lived  in  the  same  neighbour- 
hood we  felt  friendly  disposed  to  one  another.  The 
Army  and  Navy  Stores  are  a  bond  of  union  be- 
tween all  who  dwell  between  the  river  and  St. 
James's  Park.  Mrs.  Strickland  asked  me  for  my  ad- 
dress, and  a  few  days  later  I  received  an  invitation  to 
luncheon. 

My  engagements  were  few,  and  I  was  glad  to 
accept.  When  I  arrived,  a  little  late,  because  in  my 
fear  of  being  too  early  I  had  walked  three  times 
round  the  cathedral,  I  found  the  party  already 
complete.  Miss  Waterford  was  there  and  Mrs. 
Jay,  Richard  Twining  and  George  Road.  We  were 
all  writers.  It  was  a  fine  day,  early  in  spring,  and 
we  were  in  a  good  humour.  We  talked  about  a 
hundred  things.  Miss  Waterford,  torn  between  the 
aestheticism  of  her  early  youth,  when  she  used  to  go 
to  parties  in  sage  green,  holding  a  daffodil,  and  the 
flippancy  of  her  maturer  years,  which  tended  to  high 
heels  and  Paris  frocks,  wore  a  new  hat.  It  put  her 
in  high  spirits.  I  had  never  heard  her  more  malicious 
about  our  common  friends.  Mrs.  Jay,  aware  that 
impropriety  is  the  soul  of  wit,  made  observations 
in  tones  hardly  above  a  whisper  that  might  well 
have  tinged  the  snowy  tablecloth  with  a  rosy  hue. 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  25 

Richard  Twining  bubbled  over  with  quaint  absurd- 
ities, and  George  Road,  conscious  that  he  need  not 
exhibit  a  brilliancy  which  was  almost  a  by-word, 
opened  his  mouth  only  to  put  food  into  it.  Mrs. 
Strickland  did  not  talk  much,  but  she  had  a  pleasant 
gift  for  keeping  the  conversation  general;  and  when 
there  was  a  pause  she  threw  in  just  the  right  remark 
to  set  it  going  once  more.  She  was  a  woman  of 
thirty-seven,  rather  tall  and  plump,  without  being 
fat;  she  was  not  pretty,  but  her  face  was  pleasing, 
chiefly,  perhaps,  on  account  of  her  kind  brown  eyes. 
Her  skin  was  rather  sallow.  Her  dark  hair  was 
elaborately  dressed.  She  was  the  only  woman  of  the 
three  whose  face  was  free  of  make-up,  and  by  con- 
trast with  the  others  she  seemed  simple  and  un- 
affected. 

The  dining-room  was  in  the  good  taste  of  the 
period.  It  was  very  severe.  There  was  a  high  dado 
of  white  wood  and  a  green  paper  on  which  were 
etchings  by  Whistler  in  neat  black  frames.  The 
green  curtains  with  their  peacock  design,  hung  in 
straight  lines,  and  the  green  carpet,  in  the  pattern 
of  which  pale  rabbits  frolicked  among  leafy  trees, 
suggested  the  influence  of  William  Morris.  There 
was  blue  delft  on  the  chimneypiece.  At  that  time 
there  must  have  been  five  hundred  dining-rooms  in 
London  decorated  in  exactly  the  same  manner.  It 
was  chaste,  artistic,  and  dull. 

When  we  left  I  walked  away  with  Miss  Water- 
ford,  and  the  fine  day  and  her  new  hat  persuaded  us 
to  saunter  through  the  Park. 

"That  was  a  very  nice  party,"  I  said. 


STG  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

"Did  you  think  the  'food  was  good?  I  told  her 
that  if  she  wanted  writers  she  must  feed  them  well." 

"Admirable  advice,"  I  answered.  "But  why  does 
she  want  them?" 

Miss  Waterford  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"She  finds  them  amusing.  She  wants  to  be  in  the 
movement.  I  fancy  she's  rather  simple,  poor  dear, 
and  she  thinks  we're  all  wonderful.  After  all,  it 
pleases  her  to  ask  us  to  luncheon,  and  it  doesn't  hurt 
us.    I  like  her  for  it." 

Looking  back,  I  think  that  Mrs.  Strickland  was 
the  most  harmless  of  all  the  lion-hunters  that  pur- 
sue their  quarry  from  the  rarefied  heights  of  Hamp- 
stead  to  the  nethermost  studios  of  Cheyne  Walk. 
She  had  led  a  very  quiet  youth  in  the  country,  and 
the  books  that  came  down  from  Mudie's  Library 
brought  with  them  not  only  their  own  romance,  but 
the  romance  of  London.  She  had  a  real  passion  for 
reading  (rare  in  her  kind,  who  for  the  most  part  are 
more  interested  in  the  author  than  in  his  book,  in  the 
painter  than  in  his  pictures),  and  she  invented  a 
.world  of  the  imagination  in  which  she  lived  with  a 
(freedom  she  never  acquired  in  the  world  of  every 
day.  When  she  came  to  know  writers  it  was  like 
adventuring  upon  a  stage  which  till  then  she  had 
known  only  from  the  other  side  of  the  footlights. 
She  saw  them  dramatically,  and  really  seemed  her- 
self to  live  a  larger  life  because  she  entertained  them 
and  visited  them  in  their  fastnesses.  She  accepted 
the  rules  with  which  they  played  the  game  of  life  as 
valid  for  them,  but  never  for  a  moment  thought  of 
regulating  her  own  conduct  in  accordance  with  thtm. 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  2T 

Their  moral  eccentricities,  like  their  oddities  of  dress, 
their  wild  theories  and  paradoxes,  were  an  enter- 
tainment which  amused  her,  but  had  not  the  slightest 
influence  on  her  convictions. 

"Is  there  a  Mr.  Strickland?"  I  asked 
"Oh  yes ;  he's  something  in  the  city.    I  believe  he's 
a  stockbroker.     He's  very  dull." 
"Are  they  good  friends?" 

"They  adore  one  another.  You'll  meet  him  if  you 
dine  there.  But  she  doesn't  often  have  people  to 
dinner.  He's  very  quiet.  He's  not  in  the  least  in- 
terested in  literature  or  the  arts." 

"Why  do  nice  women  marry  dull  men?" 
"Because     Intelligent     men    won't     marry     nice 


women." 


I  could  not  think  of  any  retort  to  this,  so  I  asked 
if  Mrs.  Strickland  had  children. 

"Yes;  she  has  a  boy  and  a  girl.  They're  both  at 
school." 

The  subject  was  exhausted,  and  we  began  to  talk 
of  other  things. 


Chapter  V 

DURING  the  summer  I  met  Mrs.  Strickland 
not  infrequently.  I  went  now  and  then  to 
pleasant  little  luncheons  at  her  flat,  and  to 
rather  more  formidable  tea-parties.  We  took  a  fancy 
to  one  another.  I  was  very  young,  and  perhaps  she 
liked  the  idea  of  guiding  my  virgin  steps  on  the 
hard  road  of  letters;  while  for  me  it  was  pleasant 
to  have  someone  I  could  go  to  with  my  small  trou- 
bles, certain  of  an  attentive  ear  and  reasonable  coun- 
sel. Mrs.  Strickland  had  the  gift  of  sympathy.  It 
is  a  charming  faculty,  but  one  often  abused  by  those 
who  are  conscious  of  its  possession:  for  there  is 
something  ghoulish  in  the  avidity  with  which  they 
will  pounce  upon  the  misfortune  of  their  friends  so 
that  they  may  exercise  their  dexterity.  It  gushes 
forth  Hke  an  oil-well,  and  the  sympathetic  pour  out 
their  sympathy  with  an  abandon  that  is  sometimes 
embarrassing  to  their  victims.  There  are  bosoms 
on  which  so  many  tears  have  been  shed  that  I  cannot 
bedew  them  with  mine.  Mrs.  Strickland  used  her 
advantage  with  tact.  You  felt  that  you  obliged  her 
by  accepting  her  sympathy.  When,  In  the  enthusiasm 
of  my  youth,  I  remarked  on  this  to  Rose  Waterford, 
she  said: 

"Milk  Is  very  nice,  especially  with  a  drop  of 
brandy  in  it,  but  the  domestic  cow  Is  only  too  glad 
to  be  rid  of  it.  A  swollen  udder  Is  very  uncom- 
fortable." 

?8 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  29 

Rose  Waterford  had  a  blistering  tongue.  No  one 
could  say  such  bitter  things;  on  the  other  hand,  no 
one  could  do  more  charming  ones. 

There  was  another  thing  I  liked  in  Mrs.  Strick- 
land. She  managed  her  surroundings  with  elegance. 
Her  flat  was  always  neat  and  cheerful,  gay  witH 
flowers,  and  the  chintzes  in  the  drawing-room,  not- 
withstanding their  severe  design,  were  bright  and 
pretty.  The  meals  in  the  artistic  little  dining-room 
were  pleasant;  the  table  looked  nice,  the  two  maids 
were  trim  and  comely;  the  food  was  well  cooked. 
It  was  impossible  not  to  see  that  Mrs.  Strickland  was 
an  excellent  housekeeper.  And  you  felt  sure  that 
she  was  an  admirable  mother.  There  were  photo- 
graphs in  the  drawing-room  of  her  son  and  daugh- 
ter. The  son — his  name  was  Robert — was  a  boy  of 
sixteen  at  Rugby;  and  you  saw  him  in  flannels  and 
a  cricket  cap,  and  again  in  a  tail-coat  and  a  stand-up 
collar.  He  had  his  mother's  candid  brow  and  fine, 
reflective  eyes.  He  looked  clean,  healthy,  and  nor- 
mal. 

"I  don't  know  that  he's  very  clever,"  she  said  one 
day,  when  I  was  looking  at  the  photograph,  "but  I 
know  he's  good.     He  has  a  charming  character." 

The  daughter  was  fourteen.  Her  hair,  thick  and 
dark  like  her  mother's,  fell  over  her  shoulders  In 
fine  profusion,  and  she  had  the  same  kindly  expres- 
sion and  sedate,  untroubled  eyes. 

"They're  both  of  them  the  image  of  you,"  I  said. 

"Yes;  I  think  they  are  more  like  me  than  their 
father." 

"Why  have  you  never  let  me  meet  him?"  I  askeSn 


so  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

"Would  you  like  to?" 

She  smiled,  her  smile  was  really  very  sweet,  and 
she  blushed  a  little;  it  was  singular  that  a  woman 
of  that  age  should  flush  so  readily.  Perhaps  her 
naivete  was  her  greatest  charm. 

"You  know,  he's  not  at  all  literary,"  she  said. 
"He's  a  perfect  philistine." 

She  said  this  not  disparagingly,  but  affectionately 
rather,  as  though,  by  acknowledging  the  worst  about 
him,  she  wished  to  protect  him  from  the  aspersions 
of  her  friends. 

"He's  on  the  Stock  Exchange,  and  he's  a  typical 
broker.    I  think  he'd  bore  you  to  death." 

"Does  he  bore  you?"  I  asked. 

"You  see,  I  happen  to  be  his  wife.  Fm  very  fond 
of  him." 

She  smiled  to  cover  her  shyness,  and  I  fancied  she 
had  a  fear  that  I  would  make  the  sort  of  gibe  that 
such  a  confession  could  hardly  have  failed  to  elicit 
from  Rose  Waterford.  She  hesitated  a  little.  Her 
eyes  grew  tender. 

"He  doesn't  pretend  to  be  a  genius.  He  doesn't 
even  make  much  money  on  the  Stock  Exchange.  But 
he's  awfully  good  and  kind." 

*'I  think  I  should  like  him  very  much." 

"I'll  ask  you  to  dine  with  us  quietly  some  time, 
but  mind,  you  come  at  your  own  risk;  don't  blame 
me  If  you  have  a  very  dull  evening." 


Chapter  VI 

BUT  when  at  last  I  met  Charles  Strickland,  it 
was  under  circumstances  which  allowed  me  to 
do  no  more  than  just  make  his  acquaintance. 
One  morning  Mrs.  Strickland  sent  me  round  a  note 
to  say  that  she  was  giving  a  dinner-party  that  even- 
ing, and  one  of  her  guests  had  failed  her.  She  asked 
me  to  stop  the  gap.    She  wrote: 

"Ifs  only  decent  to  warn  you  that  you  will  be 
bored  to  extinction.  It  was  a  thoroughly  dull  party 
from  the  beginning,  but  if  you  will  come  I  shall  be 
uncommonly  grateful.  And  you  and  /  can  have  a 
little  chat  by  ourselves." 

It  was  only  neighbourly  to  accept. 

When  Mrs.  Strickland  introduced  me  to  her  hus- 
band, he  gave  me  a  rather  indifferent  hand  to  shake. 
Turning  to  him  gaily,  she  attempted  a  small  jest. 

"I  asked  him  to  show  him  that  I  really  had  a  hus- 
band.   I  think  he  was  beginning  to  doubt  it." 

Strickland  gave  the  polite  little  laugh  with  which 
people  acknowledge  a  facetiousness  in  which  they 
see  nothing  funny,  but  did  not  speak.  New  arrivals 
claimed  my  host's  attention,  andl  was  left  to  myself. 
When  at  last  we  were  all  assembled,  waiting  for  din- 
ner to  be  announced,  I  reflected,  while  I  chatted  with' 
the  woman  I  had  been  asked  to  "take  in,"  that  civ- 
ilised man  practises  a  strange  ingenuity  in  wasting  on 

31 


»2  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

tedious  exercises  the  brief  span  of  his  life.  It  was  the 
kind  of  party  which  makes  you  wonder  why  the  host- 
ess has  troubled  to  bid  her  guests,  and  why  the  guests 
have  troubled  to  come.  There  were  ten  people. 
They  met  with  indifference,  and  would  part  with  re- 
lief. It  was,  of  course,  a  purely  social  function. 
The  Stricklands  "owed"  dinners  to  a  number  of 
persons,  whom  they  took  no  interest  in,  and  so  had 
asked  them;  these  persons  had  accepted.  Why? 
To  avoid  the  tedium  of  dining  tete-a-tete,  to  give  their 
servants  a  rest,  because  there  was  no  reason  to  re- 
fuse, because  they  were  "owed"  a  dinner. 

The  dining-room  was  inconveniently  crowded. 
There  was  a  K.C.  and  his  wife,  a  Government  official 
and  his  wife,  Mrs.  Strickland's  sister  and  her  hus- 
band. Colonel  MacAndrew,  and  the  wife  of  a  Mem- 
ber of  Parliament.  It  was  because  the  Member  of 
Parliament  found  that  he  could  not  leave  the  House 
that  I  had  been  invited.  The  respectability  of  the 
party  was  portentous.  The  women  were  too  nice  to 
be  well  dressed,  and  too  sure  of  their  position  to  be 
amusing.  The  men  were  solid.  There  was  about 
all  of  them  an  air  of  well-satisfied  prosperity. 

Everyone  talked  a  little  louder  than  natural  In 
an  instinctive  desire  to  make  the  party  go,  and  there 
was  a  great  deal  of  noise  in  the  room.  But  there 
was  no  general  conversation.  Each  one  talked  to 
his  neighbour;  to  his  neighbour  on  the  right  during 
the  soup,  fish,  and  entree;  to  his  neighbour  on  the 
left  during  the  roast,  sweet,  and  savoury.  They 
talked  of  the  political  situation  and  of  golf,  of  their 
children  and  the  latest  play,  of  the  pictures  at  the 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  gg 

Koyal  Academy,  of  the  weather  and  tHeIr  plans  for 
the  holidays.  There  was  never  a  pause,  and  the  noise 
grew  louder.  Mrs.  Strickland  might  congratulate 
herself  that  her  party  was  a  success.  Her  husband 
played  his  part  with  decorum.  Perhaps  he  did  not 
talk  very  much,  and  I  fancied  there  was  towards  the 
end  a  look  of  fatigue  in  the  faces  of  the  women  on 
either  side  of  him.  They  were  finding  him  heavy. 
Once  or  twice  Mrs.  Strickland's  eyes  rested  on  him 
somewhat  anxiously. 

At  last  she  rose  and  shepherded  the  ladies  out  of 
"trie  room.  Strickland  shut  the  door  behind  her,  and, 
moving  to  the  other  end  of  the  table,  took  his  place 
between  the  K.C.  and  the  Government  official.  He 
passed  round  the  port  again  and  handed  us  cigars. 
The  K.C.  remarked  on  the  excellence  of  the  wine, 
and  Strickland  told  us  where  he  got  it.  We  began 
to  chat  about  vintages  and  tobacco.  The  K.C.  told 
us  of  a  case  he  was  engaged  in,  and  the  Colonel 
talked  about  polo.  I  had  nothing  to  say  and  so  sat 
silent,  trying  politely  to  show  interest  in  the  conversa- 
tion; and  because  I  thought  no  one  was  in  the  least 
concerned  with  me,  examined  Strickland  at  my  ease. 
He  was  bigger  than  I  expected:  I  do  not  know  why 
I  had  imagined  him  slender  and  of  insignificant  ap- 
pearance; in  point  of  fact  he  was  broad  and  heavy, 
with  large  hands  and  feet,  and  he  wore  his  evening 
clothes  clumsily.  He  gave  you  somewhat  the  idea 
of  a  coachman  dressed  up  for  the  occasion.  He  was 
a  man  of  forty,  not  good-looking,  and  yet  not  ugly, 
for  his  features  were  rather  good;  but  they  were  all 
a  little  larger  than  life-size,  and  the  effect  was  un- 


84  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

galnly.  He  was  clean  shaven,  and  his  large  face 
looked  uncomfortably  naked.  His  hair  was  reddish, 
cut  very  short,  and  his  eyes  were  small,  blue  or  grey. 
He  looked  commonplace.  I  no  longer  wondered  that 
Mrs.  Strickland  felt  a  certain  embarrassment  about 
him;  he  was  scarcely  a  credit  to  a  woman  who  wanted 
to  make  herself  a  position  in  the  world  of  art  and  let- 
ters. It  was  obvious  that  he  had  no  social  gifts,  but 
these  a  man  can  do  without;  he  had  no  eccentricity 
even,  to  take  him  out  of  the  common  run;  he  was  just 
a  good,  dull,  honest,  plain  man.  One  would  admire 
liis  excellent  qualities,  but  avoid  his  company.  He 
^vas  null.  He  was  probably  a  worthy  member  of  so- 
ciety, a  good  husband  and  father,  an  honest  broker; 
but  there  was  no  reason  to  waste  one's  time  over  him. 


Chapter  VII 

•*  ■  ^HE  season  was  drawing  to  its  dusty  end,  and 
I  everyone  I  knew  was  arranging  to  go  away. 
Mrs.  Strickland  was  taking  her  family  to  the 
coast  of  Norfolk,  so  that  the  children  might  have  the 
sea  and  her  husband  golf.  We  said  good-bye  to 
one  another,  and  arranged  to  meet  in  the  autumn. 
But  on  my  last  day  in  town,  coming  out  of  the  Stores^ 
I  met  her  with  her  son  and  daughter;  like  myself, 
she  had  been  making  her  final  purchases  before  leav- 
ing London,  and  we  were  both  hot  and  tired.  I  pro- 
posed that  we  should  all  go  and  eat  ices  in  the  park. 
I  think  Mrs.  Strickland  was  glad  to  show  me  her 
'hildren,  and  she  accepted  my  invitation  with  alacrity. 
They  were  even  more  attractive  than  their  photo- 
graphs had  suggested,  and  she  was  right  to  be  proud 
of  them.  I  was  young  enough  for  them  not  to  feel 
shy,  and  they  chattered  merrily  about  one  thing  and 
another.  They  v/ere  extraordinarily  nice,  healthy 
young  children.  It  was  very  agreeable  under  the 
trees. 

When  in  an  hour  they  crowded  into  a  cab  to  go 
home,  I  strolled  idly  to  my  club.  I  was  perhaps  a 
little  lonely,  and  it  was  with  a  touch  of  envy  that  I 
thought  of  the  pleasant  family  life  of  which  I  had 
had  a  glimpse.  They  seemed  devoted  to  one  an- 
other. They  had  little  private  jokes  of  their  own 
which,  unintelligible  to  the  outsider,  amused  them 
enormously.     Perhaps  Charles  Strickland  was  dull 

35 


36  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

judged  by  a  standard  that  demanded  above  all  things 
verbal  scintillation ;  but  his  intelligence  was  adequate 
to  his  surroundings,  and  that  is  a  passport,  not  only 
to  reasonable  success,  but  still  more  to  happiness. 
Mrs.  Strickland  was  a  charming  woman,  and  she 
loved  him.  I  pictured  their  lives,  troubled  by  no 
untoward  adventure,  honest,  decent,  and,  by  reason 
of  those  two  upstanding,  pleasant  children,  so  obvi- 
ously destined  to  carry  on  the  normal  traditions  of 
their  race  and  station,  not  without  significance.  They 
would  grow  old  Insensibly;  they  would  see  their  son 
and  daughter  come  to  years  of  reason,  marry  In  due 
course — the  one  a  pretty  girl,  future  mother  of 
healthy  children;  the  other  a  handsome,  manly  fellow, 
obviously  a  soldier;  and  at  last,  prosperous  in  their 
dignified  retirement,  beloved  by  their  descendants, 
after  a  happy,  not  unuseful  life,  in  the  fullness  of 
their  age  they  would  sink  Into  the  grave. 

That  must  be  the  story  of  Innumerable  couples,  and 
the  pattern  of  life  it  offers  has  a  homely  grace.  It 
reminds  you  of  a  placid  rivulet,  meandering  smoothly 
through  green  pastures  and  shaded  by  pleasant  trees, 
till  at  last  It  falls  Into  the  vasty  sea ;  but  the  sea  is  so 
calm,  so  silent,  so  Indifferent,  that  you  are  troubled 
suddenly  by  a  vague  uneasiness.  Perhaps  It  Is  only 
by  a  kink  in  my  nature,  strong  In  me  even  In  those 
days,  that  I  felt  In  such  an  existence,  the  share  of 
the  great  majority,  something  amiss.  I  recognised  its 
social  values,  I  saw  Its  ordered  happiness,  but  a  fever 
in  my  blood  asked  for  a  wilder  course.  There  seemed 
to  me  something  alarming  In  sucK  easy  delights.  la 
my  heart  was  a  desire  to  live  more  dangerously,    I 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  S7 

was  not  unprepared  for  jagged  rocKs  and  treacherous 
shoals  if  I  could  only  have  change — change  and  the 
exdtement  of  the  unforeseen. 


Chapter  VIII 

ON  reading  over  what  I  have  written  of  the 
Stricklands,  I  am  conscious  that  they  must 
seem  shadowy.  I  have  been  able  to  invest 
them  with  none  of  those  characteristics  which  make 
the  persons  of  a  book  exist  with  a  real  life  of  their 
own;  and,  wondering  if  the  fault  is  mine,  I  rack  my 
brains  to  remember  idiosyncrasies  which  might  lend 
them  vividness.  I  feel  that  by  dwelling  on  some  trick 
of  speech  or  some  queer  habit  I  should  be  able  to 
give  them  a  significance  peculiar  to  themselves.  As 
they  stand  they  are  like  the  figures  in  an  old  tapestry; 
they  do  not  separate  themselves  from  the  background, 
and  at  a  distance  seem  to  lose  their  pattern,  so  that 
you  have  little  but  a  pleasing  piece  of  colour.  My 
only  excuse  is  that  the  impression  they  made  on  me 
was  no  other.  There  was  just  that  shadowiness 
about  them  which  you  find  in  people  whose  lives  are 
part  of  the  social  organism,  so  that  they  exist  In  it 
and  by  it  only.  They  are  like  cells  in  the  body,  es- 
sential, but,  so  long  as  they  remain  healthy,  engulfed 
In  the  momentous  whole.  The  Stricklands  were  an 
average  family  in  the  middle  class.  A  pleasant,  hos- 
pitable woman,  with  a  harmless  craze  for  the  small 
lions  of  literary  society;  a  rather  dull  man,  doing  his 
duty  in  that  state  of  life  in  which  a  merciful  Provi- 
dence had  placed  him;  two  nice-looking,  healthy  chil- 
dren.    Nothing  could  be  more  ordinary.     I  do  not 

28 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  3? 

know  that  tHere  was  anything  about  them  to  excite 
the  attention  of  the  curious. 

"When  I  reflect  on  all  that  happened  later,  I  ask 
myself  If  I  was  thick-witted  not  to  see  that  there  was 
in  Charles  Strickland  at  least  something  out  of  the 
common.  Perhaps.  I  think  that  I  have  gathered  in 
the  years  that  intervene  between  then  and  now  a 
fair  knowledge  of  mankind,  but  even  if  when  I  first 
met  the  Stricklands  I  had  the  experience  which  I 
have  now,  I  do  not  believe  that  I  should  have  judged 
them  differently.  But  because  I  have  learnt  that  man 
Is  incalculable,  I  should  not  at  this  time  of  day  be 
so  surprised  by  the  news  that  reached  me  when  in 
the  early  autumn  I  returned  to  London. 

I  had  not  been  back  twenty-four  hours  before  I  ran 
across  Rose  Waterford  In  Jermyn  Street. 

"You  look  very  gay  and  sprightly,"  I  said. 
*' What's  the  matter  with  you?" 

She  smiled,  and  her  eyes  shone  with  a  malice  I 
knew  already.  It  meant  that  she  had  heard  some 
scandal  about  one  of  her  friends,  and  the  Instinct  of 
the  literary  woman  was  all  alert. 

"You  did  meet  Charles  Strickland,  didn't  you?'* 

Not  only  her  face,  but  her  whole  body,  gave  a 
sense  of  alacrity.  I  nodded.  I  wondered  if  the  poor 
devil  had  been  hammered  on  the  Stock  Exchange  oi' 
run  over  by  an  omnibus. 

"Isn't  It  dreadful  ?    He's  run  away  from  his  wife." 

Miss  Waterford  certainly  felt  that  she  could  not 
do  her  subject  justice  on  the  curb  of  Jermyn  Street, 
and  so,  like  an  artist,  flung  the  bare  fact  at  me  and 
declared  that  she  knew  no  details.     I  could  not  do 


40  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

her  the  injustice  of  supposing  that  so  trifling  a  circum- 
stance would  have  prevented  her  from  giving  them, 
but  she  was  obstinate. 

"I  tell  you  I  know  nothing,"  she  said,  in  reply  to 
my  agitated  questions,  and  then,  with  an  airy  shrug 
of  the  shoulders:  "I  believe  that  a  young  person  in 
a  city  tea-shop  has  left  her  situation." 

She  flashed  a  smile  at  me,  and,  protesting  an  en- 
gagement with  her  dentist,  jauntily  walked  on.  I 
was  more  interested  than  distressed.  In  those  days 
my  experience  of  life  at  first  hand  was  small,  and  it 
excited  me  to  come  upon  an  incident  among  people  I 
knew  of  the  same  sort  as  I  had  read  in  books.  I 
confess  that  time  has  now  accustomed  me  to  inci- 
dents of  this  character  among  my  acquaintance.  But 
I  was  a  little  shocked.  Strickland  was  certainly  forty, 
and  I  thought  it  disgusting  that  a  man  of  his  age 
ishould  concern  himself  with  affairs  of  the  heart. 
With  the  superciliousness  of  extreme  youth,  I  put 
thirty-five  as  the  utmost  limit  at  which  a  man  might 
fall  in  love  without  making  a  fool  of  himself.  And 
this  news  was  slightly  disconcerting  to  me  personally, 
because  I  had  written  from  the  country  to  Mrs. 
Strickland,  announcing  my  return,  and  had  added  that 
unless  I  heard  from  her  to  the  contrary,  I  would  come 
on  a  certain  day  to  drink  a  dish  of  tea  with  her.  This 
was  the  very  day,  and  I  had  received  no  word  from 
Mrs.  Strickland.  Did  she  want  to  see  me  or  did  she 
not?  It  was  likely  enough  that  in  the  agitation  of 
the  moment  my  note  had  escaped  her  memory.  Per- 
haps I  should  be  wiser  not  to  go.  On  the  other  hand, 
she  might  wish  to  keep  the  affair  quiet,  and  it  might 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  41 

be  highly  indiscreet  on  my  part  to  give  any  sign  that 
this  strange  news  had  reached  me.  I  was  torn  be- 
tween the  fear  of  hurting  a  nice  woman's  feehngs  and 
the  fear  of  being  in  the  way.  I  felt  she  must  be 
suffering,  and  I  did  not  want  to  see  a  pain  which  I 
could  not  help ;  but  in  my  heart  was  a  desire,  that  I 
felt  a  little  ashamed  of,  to  see  how  she  was  taking  it. 
I  did  not  know  what  to  do. 

Finally  it  occurred  to  me  that  I  would  call  as 
though  nothing  had  happened,  and  send  a  message 
in  by  the  maid  asking  Mrs.  Strickland  if  it  was  con- 
venient for  her  to  see  me.  This  would  give  her  the 
opportunity  to  send  me  away.  But  I  was  over- 
whelmed with  embarrassment  when  I  said  to  the 
maid  the  phrase  I  had  prepared,  and  while  I  waited 
for  the  answer  in  a  dark  passage  I  had  to  call  up  all 
my  strength  of  mind  not  to  bolt.  The  maid  came 
back.  Her  manner  suggested  to  my  excited  fancy  a 
complete  knowledge  of  the  domestic  calamity. 

"Will  you  come  this  way,  sir?"  she  said. 

I  followed  her  into  the  drawing-room.  The  blinds 
were  partly  drawn  to  darken  the  room,  and  Mrs. 
Strickland  was  sitting  with  her  back  to  the  light. 
Her  brother-in-law.  Colonel  MacAndrew,  stood  in 
front  of  the  fireplace,  warming  his  back  at  an  unlit 
fire.  To  myself  my  entrance  seemed  excessively  awk- 
ward. I  imagined  that  my  arrival  had  taken  them 
by  surprise,  and  Mrs.  Strickland  had  let  me  come  in 
only  because  she  had  forgotten  to  put  me  off.  I 
fancied  that  the  Colonel  resented  the  interruption. 

"I  wasn't  quite  sure  if  you  expected  me,"  I  saic^ 
trying  to  seem  unconcerned. 


»2  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

*'0f  course  I  did.  Anne  will  bring  the  tea  in  a 
minute." 

Even  In  the  darkened  room,  I  could  not  help  see- 
ing that  Mrs.  Strickland's  face  was  all  swollen  with 
tears.    Her  skin,  never  very  good,  was  earthy. 

"You  remember  my  brother-in-law,  don't  you? 
You  met  at  dinner,  just  before  the  holidays." 

We  shook  hands.  I  felt  so  shy  that  I  could  think 
of  nothing  to  say,  but  Mrs.  Strickland  came  to  my 
rescue.  She  asked  me  what  I  had  been  doing  with 
myself  during  the  summer,  and  with  this  help  I  man- 
aged to  make  some  conversation  till  tea  was  brought 
in.    The  Colonel  asked  for  a  whisky-and-soda. 

"You'd  better  have  one  too,  Amy,"  he  said. 

"No;  I  prefer  tea." 

This  was  the  first  suggestion  that  anything  un- 
toward had  happened.  I  took  no  notice,  and  did  my 
best  to  engage  Mrs.  Strickland  in  talk.  The  Colonel, 
still  standing  in  front  of  the  fireplace,  uttered  no  word. 
I  wondered  how  soon  I  could  decently  take  my  leave, 
land  I  asked  myself  why  on  earth  Mrs.  Strickland 
had  allowed  me  to  come.  There  were  no  flowers, 
and  various  knick-knacks,  put  away  during  the  sum- 
mer, had  not  been  replaced;  there  was  something 
'cheerless  and  stiff  about  the  room  which  had  always 
seemed  so  friendly;  it  gave  you  an  odd  feeling,  as 
though  someone  were  lying  dead  on  the  other  side 
of  the  wall.     I  finished  tea. 

"Will  you  have  a  cigarette?"  asked  Mrs.  Strick- 
land. 

She  looked  about  for  the  box,  but  it  was  not  to 
be  seen. 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  4$ 

"I'm  afraid  there  are  none." 

Suddenly  she  burst  into  tears,  and  hurried  from  the 
room. 

I  was  startled.  I  suppose  now  that  the  lack  of 
cigarettes,  brought  as  a  rule  by  her  husband,  forced 
him  back  upon  her  recollection,  and  the  new  feeling 
that  the  small  comforts  she  was  used  to  were  missing 
gave  her  a  sudden  pang.  She  realised  that  the  old  life 
was  gone  and  done  with.  It  was  impossible  to  keep 
up  our  social  pretences  any  longer. 

"I  dare  say  you'd  like  me  to  go,"  I  said  to  the 
Colonel,  getting  up. 

"I  suppose  you've  heard  that  blackguard  has  de- 
serted her,"  he  cried  explosively. 

I  hesitated. 

"You  know  how  people  gossip,"  I  answered.  "Z 
was  vaguely  told  that  something  was  wrong." 

"He's  bolted.  He's  gone  off  to  Paris  with  a 
woman.    He's  left  Amy  without  a  penny." 

"I'm  awfully  sorry,"  I  said,  not  knowing  what  else 
to  say. 

The  Colonel  gulped  down  his  whisky.  He  was  a 
tall,  lean  man  of  fifty,  with  a  drooping  moustache 
and  grey  hair.  He  had  pale  blue  eyes  and  a  weak 
mouth.  I  remembered  from  my  previous  meeting 
with  him  that  he  had  a  foolish  face,  and  was  proud 
of  the  fact  that  for  the  ten  years  before  he  left  the 
army  he  had  played  polo  three  days  a  week. 

"I  don't  suppose  Mrs.  Strickland  wants  to  be  both- 
ered with  me  just  now,"  I  said.  "Will  you  tell  hef 
how  sorry  I  am?  If  there's  anything  I  can  do,  I  shall 
be  delighted  to  do  it." 


SM  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

He  took  no  notice  of  me. 

"I  don't  know  what's  to  become  of  her.  And  thea 
there  are  the  children.  Are  they  going  to  live  on  air? 
Seventeen  years." 

"What  about  seventeen  years?" 

"They've  been  married,"  he  snapped.  "I  never 
liked  him.  Of  course  he  was  my  brother-in-law,  andl 
I  made  the  best  of  it.  Did  you  think  him  a  gentle- 
man ?    She  ought  never  to  have  married  him." 

"Is  it  absolutely  final?" 

"There's  only  one  thing  for  her  to  do,  and  that's 
to  divorce  him.  That's  what  I  was  telling  her  when 
you  came  in.  *Fire  In  with  your  petition,  my  dear 
Amy,'  I  said.  *You  owe  It  to  yourself  and  you  owe 
it  to  the  children.'  He'd  better  not  let  me  catch 
sight  of  him.  Td  thrash  him  within  an  Inch  of  his 
life." 

I  could  not  help  thinking  that  Colonel  MacAndrew 
might  have  some  difficulty  in  doing  this,  since  Strick- 
land had  struck  me  as  a  hefty  fellow,  but  I  did  not 
say  anything.  It  Is  always  distressing  when  outraged 
morality  does  not  possess  the  strength  of  arm  to  ad- 
minister direct  chastisement  on  the  sinner.  I  was 
making  up  my  mind  to  another  attempt  at  going  when 
Mrs.  Strickland  came  back.  She  had  dried  her  eyes 
and  powdered  her  nose. 

"I'm  sorry  1  broke  down,"  she  said.  "I'm  glad 
you  didn't  go  away." 

She  sat  down.  I  did  not  at  all  know  what  to  say. 
I  felt  a  certain  shyness  at  referring  to  matters  which 
were  no  concern  of  mine.  I  did  not  then  know  the 
besetting  sin  of  woman,  the  passion  to  discuss  her 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  45 

private  affairs  with  anyone  who  is  willing  to  listen. 
Mrs.  Strickland  seemed  to  make  an  effort  over  her- 
self. 

"Are  people  talking  about  it?"  she  asked. 

I  was  taken  aback  by  her  assumption  that  I  knew 
all  about  her  domestic  misfortune. 

"I've  only  just  come  back.  The  only  person  I've 
seen  is  Rose  Waterford." 

Mrs.  Strickland  clasped  her  hands. 

"Tell  me  exactly  what  she  said."  And  when  I 
hesitated,  she  insisted.  "I  particularly  want  to 
know." 

"You  know  the  way  people  talk.  She's  not  very 
reliable,  is  she?  She  said  your  husband  had  left 
you." 

"Is  that  all?" 

I  did  not  choose  to  repeat  Rose  Waterford's 
parting  reference  to  a  girl  from  a  tea-shop.  I 
lied. 

"She  didn't  say  anything  about  his  going  with  any- 
one?" 

"No." 

"That's  all  I  wanted  to  know." 

I  was  a  little  puzzled,  but  at  all  events  I  understood 
that  I  might  now  take  my  leave.  When  I  shook 
hands  with  Mrs.  Strickland  I  told  her  that  if  I  could 
be  of  any  use  to  her  I  should  be  very  glad.  She 
smiled  wanly. 

"Thank  you  so  much.  I  don't  know  that  anybody 
can  do  anything  for  me." 

Too  shy  to  express  my  sympathy,  I  turned  to  say 
good-bye  to  the  Colonel.    He  did  not  take  my  hand. 


46  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

"Fm  just  coming.    If  you're  walking  up  Victoria 

Street,  I'll  come  along  with  you." 
"All  right,"  I  said.    "Come  on." 


Chapter  IX 

"'TT^HIS  Is  a  terrible  thing,"  he  said,  the  moment 

I     we  got  out  into  the  street. 

I  reahsed  that  he  had  come  away  with  mCj 
in  order  to  discuss  once  more  what  he  had  been  al. 
ready  discussing  for  hours  with  his  sister-in-law. 

"We  don't  know  who  the  woman  is,  you  know," 
he  said.  "All  we  know  is  that  the  blackguard's  gone 
to  Paris," 

"I  thought  they  got  on  so  well." 

"So  they  did.  Why,  just  before  you  came  in  Amy 
said  they'd  never  had  a  quarrel  in  the  whole  of  their 
married  life.  You  know  Amy.  There  never  was  a 
better  woman  In  the  world." 

Since  these  confidences  were  thrust  on  me,  I  saw 
no  harm  in  asking  a  few  questions. 

"But  do  you  mean  to  say  she  suspected  noth- 
ingr' 

"Nothing.  He  spent  August  with  her  and  the  chil- 
dren In  Norfolk.  He  was  just  the  same  as  he'd  al- 
ways been.  We  went  down  for  two  or  three  days, 
my  wife  and  I,  and  I  played  golf  with  him.  He 
came  back  to  town  in  September  to  let  his  partner  go 
away,  and  Amy  stayed  on  In  the  country.  They'd 
taken  a  house  for  six  weeks,  and  at  the  end  of  her 
tenancy  she  wrote  to  tell  him  on  which  day  she  was 
arriving  in  London.  He  answered  from  Paris.  He 
said  he'd  made  up  his  mind  not  to  live  with  he^  any 
more." 

47 


48  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

"What  explanation  did  he  give?" 

"My  dear  fellow,  he  gave  no  explanation.  I've 
Seen  the  letter.    It  wasn't  more  than  ten  lines." 

"But  that's  extraordinary." 

We  happened  then  to  cross  the  street,  and  the 
traffic  prevented  us  from  speaking.  What  Colonel 
iMacAndrew  had  told  me  seemed  very  improb- 
able, and  I  suspected  that  Mrs.  Strickland,  for  rea- 
sons of  her  own,  had  concealed  from  him  some  part 
of  the  facts.  It  was  clear  that  a  man  after  sevens 
teen  years  of  wedlock  did  not  leave  his  wife  without 
certain  occurrences  which  must  have  led  her  to  sus- 
pect that  all  was  not  well  with  their  married  life. 
The  Colonel  caught  me  up. 

"Of  course,  there  was  no  explanation  he  could  give 
except  that  he'd  gone  off  with  a  woman.  I  suppose 
he  thought  she  could  find  that  out  for  herself.  That's 
the  sort  of  chap  he  was." 

"What  is  Mrs.  Strickland  going  to  do?'* 

"Well,  the  first  thing  is  to  get  our  proofs.  I'm 
going  over  to  Paris  myself." 

"And  what  about  his  business?" 

"That's  where  he's  been  so  artful.  He's  been 
drawing  in  his  horns  for  the  last  year." 

"Did  he  tell  his  partner  he  was  leaving?" 

"Not  a  word.** 

Colonel  MacAndrew  had  a  very  sketchy  knowl- 
edge of  business  matters,  and  I  had  none  at  all,  so 
I  did  not  quite  understand  under  what  conditions 
Strickland  had  left  his  affairs.  I  gathered  that  the 
deserted  partner  was  very  angry  and  threatened  pro- 
<X:edings.     It  appeared  that  when  everything  was 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  49 

settled  he  would  be  four  or  five  hundred  pounds  out 
of  pocket 

"It's  lucky  the  furniture  in  the  flat  is  in  Amy's 
name.    She'll  have  that  at  all  events.'* 

"Did  you  mean  it  when  you  said  she  wouldn't 
have  a  bob?" 

"Of  course  I  did.  She's  got  two  or  three  hundred 
pounds  and  the  furniture." 

"But  how  is  she  going  to  live?" 

"God  knows." 

The  affair  seemed  to  grow  more  complicated,  and 
the  Colonel,  with  his  expletives  and  his  indignation, 
confused  rather  than  informed  me.  I  was  glad  that, 
catching  sight  of  the  clock  at  the  Army  and  Navy 
Stores,  he  remembered  an  engagement  to  play  cards 
at  his  club,  and  so  left  me  to  cut  across  St.  James 
Park. 


Chapter  X 

A  DAY  or  two  later  Mrs.  Strickland  sent  me 
round  a  note  asking  if  I  could  go  and  see  her 
that  evening  after  dinner.  I  found  her  alone. 
Her  black  dress,  simple  to  austerity,  suggested  her 
bereaved  condition,  and  I  was  innocently  astonished 
that  notwithstanding  a  real  emotion  she  was  able  to 
dress  the  part  she  had  to  play  according  to  her  no- 
tions of  seemliness. 

"You  said  that  if  I  wanted  you  to  do  anything 
you  wouldn't  mind  doing  it,"  she  remarked. 

"It  was  quite  true." 

"Will  you  go  over  to  Paris  and  see  Charlie?" 

"I?" 

I  was  taken  aback.  I  reflected  that  I  had  only 
seen  him  once.  I  did  not  know  what  she  wanted  me 
to  do. 

"Fred  is  set  on  going."  Fred  was  Colonel  Mac- 
Andrew.  "But  I'm  sure  he's  not  the  man  to  go. 
Hell  only  make  things  worse.  I  don't  know  who 
else  to  ask." 

Her  voice  trembled  a  little,  and  I  felt  a  brute  even 
to  hesitate. 

"But  I've  not  spoken  ten  words  to  your  husband. 
He  doesn't  know  me.  He'll  probably  just  tell  me 
to  go  to  the  devil." 

"That  wouldn't  hurt  you,"  said  Mrs.  Strickland, 
smiling. 

"What  is  it  exactly  you  want  me  to  do?" 

SO 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  51 

She  did  not  answer  directly. 

**I  think  it's  rather  an  advantage  that  he  doesn't 
know  you.  You  see,  he  never  really  liked  Fred;  he 
thought  him  a  fool;  he  didn't  understand  soldiers. 
Fred  would  fly  into  a  passion,  and  there'd  be  a  quar- 
rel, and  things  would  be  worse  instead  of  better.  If 
you  said  you  came  on  my  behalf,  he  couldn't  refuse 
to  listen  to  you." 

"I  haven't  known  you  very  long,"  I  answered.  "I 
don't  see  how  anyone  can  be  expected  to  tackle  a  case 
like  this  unless  he  knows  all  the  details.  I  don't 
want  to  pry  into  what  doesn't  concern  me.  Why 
don't  you  go  and  see  him  yourself?" 

"You  forget  he  isn't  alone." 

I  held  my  tongue.  I  saw  myself  calling  on  Charles 
Strickland  and  sending  in  my  card;  I  saw  him  come 
into  the  room,  holding  it  between  finger  and  thumb : 

"To  what  do  I  owe  this  honour?" 

"I've  come  to  see  you  about  your  wife." 

"Really.  When  you  are  a  little  older  you  will 
doubtless  learn  the  advantage  of  minding  your  own 
business.  If  you  will  be  so  good  as  to  turn  your 
head  slightly  to  the  left,  you  will  see  the  door.  I  wIsK 
you  good-afternoon." 

I  foresaw  that  it  would  be  difficult  to  make  my  exit 
with  dignity,  and  I  wished  to  goodness  that  I  had  not 
returned  to  London  till  Mrs.  Strickland  had  com- 
posed her  difficulties.  I  stole  a  glance  at  her.  She 
was  immersed  in  thought.  Presently  she  looked  up 
at  me,  sighed  deeply,  and  smiled. 

"It  was  all  so  unexpected,"  she  said.  "We*d  been 
married  seventeen  years.     I  never  dreamed  that 


52  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

Charlie  was  the  sort  of  man  to  get  infatuated  witK 
anyone.  We  always  got  on  very  well  together.  Of 
course,  I  had  a  great  many  interests  that  he  didn^t 
share." 

"Have  you  found  out  who"' — I  did  not  quite  know 
how  to  express  myself — "who  the  person,  who  it  is 
he's  gone  away  with?" 

"No.  No  one  seems  to  have  an  idea.  It's  so 
strange.  Generally  when  a  man  falls  in  love  with 
someone  people  see  them  about  together,  lunching 
or  something,  and  her  friends  always  come  and  tell 
the  wife.  I  had  no  warning — nothing.  His  letter 
came  like  a  thunderbolt.  I  thought  he  was  perfectly 
happy." 

She  began  to  cry,  poor  thing,  and  I  felt  very  sorry 
for  her.    But  in  a  little  while  she  grew  calmer. 

"It's  no  good  making  a  fool  of  myself,"  she  said, 
drying  her  eyes.  "The  only  thing  is  to  decide  what 
is  the  best  thing  to  do." 

She  went  on,  talking  somewhat  at  random,  now 
of  the  recent  past,  then  of  their  first  meeting  and 
their  marriage ;  but  presently  I  began  to  form  a  fairly 
coherent  picture  of  their  lives ;  and  it  seemed  to  me 
that  my  surmises  had  not  been  incorrect.  Mrs. 
Strickland  was  the  daughter  of  an  Indian  civilian, 
who  on  his  retirement  had  settled  in  the  depths  of 
the  country,  but  it  was  his  habit  every  August  to 
take  his  family  to  Eastbourne  for  change  of  air; 
and  it  was  here,  when  she  was  twenty,  that  she  met 
Charles  Strickland.  He  was  twenty-three.  They 
played  together,  walked  on  the  front  together,  lis- 
tened together  to  the  nigger  minstrels;  and  she  had 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  SS" 

made  up  her  mind  to  accept  him  a  week  before  he 
proposed  to  her.  They  lived  in  London,  first  in 
Hampstead,  and  then,  as  he  grew  more  prosperous, 
in  town.    Two  children  were  bom  to  them. 

"He  always  seemed  very  fond  of  them.  Even  if 
he  was  tired  of  me,  I  wonder  that  he  had  the  heart 
to  leave  them.  It's  all  so  incredible.  Even  now  I 
can  hardly  believe  it's  true." 

At  last  she  showed  me  the  letter  he  had  written'. 
I  was  curious  to  see  it,  but  had  not  ventured  to  ask 
for  It. 

"My  dear  Amy, 

"/  think  you  will  find  everything  all  right  in  the 
flat,  I  have  given  Anne  your  instructions,  and  din- 
ner will  be  ready  for  you  and  the  children  when  you 
come,  I  shall  not  be  there  to  meet  you.  I  have  made 
up  my  mind  to  live  apart  from  you,  and  I  am  going 
to  Paris  in  the  morning.  I  shall  post  this  letter  on 
my  arrival.  I  shall  not  come  hack.  My  decision  is 
irrevocable, 

"Yours  always, 

"Charles  Strickland." 

"Not  a  word  of  explanation  or  regret.  Don't  you 
think  it's  inhuman?" 

"It's  a  very  strange  letter  under  the  circumstances,'* 
I  replied. 

"There's  only  one  explanation,  and  that  Is  that  he's 
not  himself.  I  don't  know  who  this  woman  is  who's 
got  hold  of  him,  but  she's  made  him  into  another 
man.    It^s  evidently  been  going  on  a  long  time." 


54  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

"What  makes  you  think  that?" 

"Fred  found  that  out.  My  husband  said  he  went 
to  the  club  three  or  four  nights  a  week  to  play 
bridge.  Fred  knows  one  of  the  members,  and  said 
something  about  Charles  being  a  great  bridge-player. 
The  man  was  surprised.  He  said  he'd  never  even 
seen  Charles  in  the  card-room.  It's  quite  clear  now 
that  when  I  thought  Charles  was  at  his  club  he  was 
with  her." 

I  was  silent  for  a  moment.  Then  I  thought  of  the 
children. 

"It  must  have  been  difficult  to  explain  to  Robert," 
I  said. 

"Oh,  I  never  said  a  word  to  either  of  them.  You 
see,  we  only  came  up  to  town  the  day  before  they 
had  to  go  back  to  school.  I  had  the  presence  of 
mind  to  say  that  their  father  had  been  called  away 
on  business." 

It  could  not  have  been  very  easy  to  be  bright  and 
careless  with  that  sudden  secret  in  her  heart,  nor  to 
give  her  attention  to  all  the  things  that  needed  doing 
to  get  her  children  comfortably  packed  off.  Mrs. 
Strickland's  voice  broke  again. 

"And  what  is  to  happen  to  them,  poor  darlings? 
How  are  we  going  to  live?" 

She  struggled  for  self-control,  and  I  saw  her  hands 
clench  and  unclench  spasmodically.  It  was  dread- 
fully painful. 

"Of  course  I'll  go  over  to  Paris  If  you  think  I 
can  do  any  good,  but  you  must  tell  me  exactly  what 
you  want  me  to  do.'* 

"I  want  him  to  come  back." 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  55 

"I  understood  from  Colonel  MacAndrew 
that  you'd  made  up  your  mind  to  divorce 
him." 

"I'll  never  divorce  him,"  she  answered  with  a 
sudden  violence.  "Tell  him  that  from  me.  He'll 
never  be  able  to  marry  that  woman.  I'm  as  obsti- 
nate as  he  is,  and  I'll  never  divorce  him.  I  have  to 
think  of  my  children." 

I  think  she  added  this  to  explain  her  attitude  to 
me,  but  I  thought  it  was  due  to  a  very  natural  jealousy 
rather  than  to  maternal  solicitude. 

"Are  you  in  love  with  him  still?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  want  him  to  come  back.  If  he'll 
do  that  we'll  let  bygones  be  bygones.  After  allj 
we've  been  married  for  seventeen  years.  I'm  a  broad- 
minded  woman.  I  wouldn't  have  minded  what  he  did 
as  long  as  I  knew  nothing  about  it.  He  must  know 
that  his  infatuation  won't  last.  If  he'll  come  back 
now  everything  can  be  smoothed  over,  and  no  one 
will  know  anything  about  it." 

It  chilled  me  a  little  that  Mrs.  Strickland  should 
be  concerned  with  gossip,  for  I  did  not  know  then 
how  great  a  part  is  played  in  women's  life  by  the 
opinion  of  others.  It  throws  a  shadow  of  insincerity 
over  their  most  deeply  felt  emotions. 

It  was  known  where  Strickland  was  staying.  His 
partner,  in  a  violent  letter,  sent  to  his  bank,  had 
taunted  him  with  hiding  his  whereabouts :  and  Strick- 
land, in  a  cynical  and  humourous  reply,  had  told  his 
partner  exactly  where  to  find  him.  He  was  apparent- 
ly living  in  an  hotel. 

"I've  never  heard  of  it,"  said  Mrs.  Strickland* 


56  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

"But  Fred  knows  it  well.  He  says  it's  very  expen- 
sive." 

She  flushed  darkly.  I  imagined  that  she  saw  her 
husband  installed  in  a  luxurious  suite  of  rooms,  din- 
ing at  one  smart  restaurant  after  another,  and  she 
pictured  his  days  spent  at  race-meetings  and  his  even- 
ings at  the  play. 

"It  can't  go  on  at  his  age,"  she  said.  "After  all, 
he's  forty.  I  could  understand  it  in  a  young  man, 
but  I  think  it's  horrible  in  a  man  of  his  years,  with 
children  who  are  nearly  grown  up.  His  health  will 
never  stand  it." 

Anger  struggled  in  her  breast  with  misery. 

"Tell  him  that  our  home  cries  out  for  him.  Every- 
thing is  just  the  same,  and  yet  everything  is  differ- 
ent. I  can't  live  without  him.  I'd  sooner  kill  my- 
self. Talk  to  him  about  the  past,  and  all  we've  gone 
through  together.  What  am  I  to  say  to  the  children 
when  they  ask  for  him?  His  room  is  exactly  as  it 
was  when  he  left  it.  It's  waiting  for  him.  We're 
all  waiting  for  him." 

Now  she  told  me  exactly  what  I  should  say.  She 
gave  me  elaborate  answers  to  every  possible  observa- 
tion of  his. 

"You  will  do  everything  you  can  for  me?"  she 
said  pitifully.     "Tell  him  what  a  state  I'm  in." 

I  saw  that  she  wished  me  to  appeal  to  his  sym- 
pathies by  every  means  in  my  power.  She  was  weep- 
ing freely.  I  was  extraordinarily  touched.  I  felt 
Indignant  at  Strickland's  cold  cruelty,  and  I  promised 
to  do  all  I  could  to  bring  him  back.  I  agreed  to 
go  over  on  the  next  day  but  one,  and  to  stay  In 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  57 

Paris  till  I  had  achieved  something.  Then,  as  It  was 
growing  late  and  we  were  both  exhausted  by  so  much 
emotion,  I  left  her. 


Chapter  XI 

DURING  the  journey  I  thought  over  my  er- 
rand with  misgiving.  Now  that  I  was  free 
from  the  spectacle  of  Mrs.  Strickland's  dis- 
tress I  could  consider  the  matter  more  calmly.  I 
was  puzzled  by  the  contradictions  that  I  saw  in  her 
behaviour.  She  was  very  unhappy,  but  to  excite  my 
sympathy  she  was  able  to  make  a  show  of  her  un- 
happlness.  It  was  evident  that  she  had  been  prepared 
to  weep,  for  she  had  provided  herself  with  a  suffi- 
ciency of  handkerchiefs;  I  admired  her  forethought, 
but  in  retrospect  it  made  her  tears  perhaps  less 
moving.  I  could  not  decide  whether  she  desired  the 
return  of  her  husband  because  she  loved  him,  or 
because  she  dreaded  the  tongue  of  scandal;  and  I 
was  perturbed  by  the  suspicion  that  the  anguish  of 
love  contemned  was  alloyed  in  her  broken  heart 
with  the  pangs,  sordid  to  my  young  mind,  of  wounded 
vanity.  I  had  not  yet  learnt  how  contradictory  is 
human  nature ;  I  did  not  know  how  much  pose  there 
is  in  the  sincere,  how  much  baseness  in  the  noble, 
nor  how  much  goodness  in  the  reprobate. 

But  there  was  something  of  an  adventure  In  my 
trip,  and  my  spirits  rose  as  I  approached  Paris.  I 
saw  myself,  too,  from  the  dramatic  standpoint,  and 
I  was  pleased  with  my  role  of  the  trusted  friend 
bringing  back  the  errant  husband  to  his  forgiving 
wife.  I  made  up  my  mind  to  see  Strickland  the 
following  evening,   for  I   felt  instinctively  that  the 

58 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  59 

hour  must  be  chosen  with  delicacy.  An  appeal  to 
the  emotions  Is  little  likely  to  be  effectual  before 
luncheon.  My  own  thoughts  were  then  constantly 
occupied  with  love,  but  I  never  could  Imagine  con- 
nubial bliss  till  after  tea. 

I  enquired  at  my  hotel  for  that  In  which  Charles 
Strickland  was  living.  It  was  called  the  Hotel  des 
Beiges.  But  the  concierge,  somewhat  to  my  surprise, 
had  never  heard  of  it.  I  had  understood  from  Mrs. 
Strickland  that  it  was  a  large  and  sumptuous  place 
at  the  back  of  the  Rue  de  Rivoli.  We  looked  it 
out  in  the  directory.  The  only  hotel  of  that  name 
was  in  the  Rue  des  Moines.  The  quarter  was  not 
fashionable;  It  was  not  even  respectable.  I  shook 
my  head. 
.     "I'm  sure  that's  not  It,"  I  said. 

The  concierge  shrugged  his  shoulders.  There  was 
no  other  hotel  of  that  name  In  Paris.  It  occurred 
to  me  that  Strickland  had  concealed  his  address, 
after  all.  In  giving  his  partner  the  one  I  knew 
he  was  perhaps  playing  a  trick  on  him.  I  do  not 
know  why  I  had  an  Inkling  that  it  would  appeal  to 
Strickland's  sense  of  humour  to  bring  a  furious 
stockbroker  over  to  Paris  on  a  fool's  errand  to  an 
ill-famed  house  In  a  mean  street.  Still,  I  thought 
I  had  better  go  and  see.  Next  day  about  six  o'clock 
I  took  a  cab  to  the  Rue  des  Moines,  but  dismissed 
It  at  the  corner,  since  I  preferred  to  walk  to  the 
hotel  and  look  at  It  before  I  went  In.  It  was  a 
street  of  small  shops  subservient  to  the  needs  of  poor 
people,  and  about  the  middle  of  It,  on  the  left  as 
I  walked  down,  was  the  Hotel  des  Beiges.     My^ 


160  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

own  hotel  was  modest  enough,  but  it  was  magnifi- 
cent in  comparison  with  this.  It  was  a  tall,  shabby 
building,  that  cannot  have  been  painted  for  years, 
and  it  had  so  bedraggled  an  air  that  the  houses  on 
each  side  of  it  looked  neat  and  clean.  The  dirty 
windows  were  all  shut.  It  was  not  here  that  Charles 
Strickland  lived  in  guilty  splendour  with  the  unknown 
charmer  for  whose  sake  he  had  abandoned  honour 
and  duty,  I  was  vexed,  for  I  felt  that  I  had  been 
made  a  fool  of,  and  I  nearly  turned  away  without 
making  an  enquiry.  I  went  in  only  to  be  able  to 
tell  Mrs.  Strickland  that  I  had  done  my  best. 

The  door  was  at  the  side  of  a  shop.  It  stood 
open,  and  just  within  was  a  sign :  Bureau  au  premier. 
I  walked  up  narrow  stairs,  and  on  the  landing  found 
a  sort  of  box,  glassed  in,  within  which  were  a  desk 
and  a  couple  of  chairs.  There  was  a  bench  out- 
side, on  which  it  might  be  presumed  the  night  porter 
passed  uneasy  nights.  There  was  no  one  about,  but 
under  an  electric  bell  was  written  Gargon.  I  rang, 
and  presently  a  waiter  appeared.  He  was  a  young 
man  with  furtive  eyes  and  a  sullen  look.  He  was 
in  shirt-sleeves  and  carpet  slippers. 

I  do  not  know  why  I  made  my  enquiry  as  casual 
as  possible. 

"Does  Mr.  Strickland  live  here  by  any  chance?'* 
I  asked. 

"Number  thirty-two.     On  the  sixth  floor." 

I  was  so  surprised  that  for  a  moment  I  did  not 
answer. 

"Is  he  in?" 

The  waiter  looked  at  a  board  In  the  bureau. 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  61 

*'He  hasn't  left  his  key.     Go  up  and  you'll  see." 

I  thought  It  as  well  to  put  one  more  question. 

"Madame  est  laf" 

"Monsieur  est  seul." 

The  waiter  looked  at  me  suspiciously  as  I  made 
my  way  upstairs.  They  were  dark  and  airless. 
There  was  a  foul  and  musty  smell.  Three  flights 
up  a  woman  in  a  dressing-gown,  with  touzled  hair, 
opened  a  door  and  looked  at  me  silently  as  I  passed. 
At  length  I  reached  the  sixth  floor,  and  knocked  at 
the  door  numbered  thirty-two.  There  was  a  sound 
within,  and  the  door  was  partly  opened.  Charles 
Strickland  stood  before  me.  He  uttered  not  a  word. 
He  evidently  did  not  know  me. 

I  told  him  my  name.  I  tried  my  best  to  assume 
an  airy  manner. 

"You  don't  remember  me.  I  had  the  pleasure 
of  dining  with  you  last  July." 

"Come  In,"  he  said  cheerily.  "I'm  delighted  to 
see  you.    Take  a  pew." 

I  entered.  It  was  a  very  small  room,  overcrowded 
with  furniture  of  the  style  which  the  French  know 
as  Louis  Philippe.  There  was  a  large  wooden  bed- 
stead on  which  was  a  billowing  red  eiderdown,  and 
there  was  a  large  wardrobe,  a  round  table,  a  very 
small  washstand,  and  two  stuffed  chairs  covered  wItK 
red  rep.  Everything  was  dirty  and  shabby.  There 
was  no  sign  of  the  abandoned  luxury  that  Colonel 
MacAndrew  had  so  confidently  described.  Strick- 
land threw  on  the  floor  the  clothes  that  burdened 
one  of  the  chairs,  and  I  sat  down  on  It. 

"What  can  I  do  for  you  ?"  he  asked. 


^  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

In  that  small  room  he  seemed  even  bigger  than 
I  remembered  him.  He  wore  an  old  Norfolk  jacket, 
and  he  had  not  shaved  for  several  days.  When  last 
I  saw  him  he  was  spruce  enough,  but  he  looked  ill 
at  ease :  now,  untidy  and  ill-kempt,  he  looked  per- 
fectly at  home.  I  did  not  know  how  he  would  take 
the  remark  I  had  prepared. 

"I've  come  to  see  you  on  behalf  of  your  wife." 

"I  was  just  going  out  to  have  a  drink  before  din- 
ner.   You'd  better  come  too.    Do  you  like  absinthe?" 

**I  can  drink  it." 

"Come  on,  then." 

He  put  on  a  bowler  hat  much  in  need  of  brushing. 

"We  might  dine  together.  You  owe  me  a  din- 
ner, you  know." 

"Certainly.    Are  you  alone?" 

I  flattered  myself  that  I  had  got  in  that  Impor- 
tant question  very  naturally. 

"Oh  yes.  In  point  of  fact  I've  not  spoken  to  a 
soul,  for  three  days.  My  French  isn't  exactly  bril- 
liant." 

I  wondered  as  I  preceded  him  downstairs  what 
had  happened  to  the  little  lady  in  the  tea-shop.  Had 
they  quarrelled  already,  or  was  his  infatuation 
passed?  It  seemed  hardly  likely  If,  as  appeared, 
he  had  been  taking  steps  for  a  year  to  make  his 
desperate  plunge.  We  walked  to  the  Avenue  de 
Clichy,  and  sat  down  at  one  of  the  tables  on  the  pav^ 
ment  of  a  large  cafe. 


Chapter  XII 

THE  Avenue  de  Clichy  was  crowded  at  that 
hour,  and  a  lively  fancy  might  see  in  the 
passers-by  the  personages  of  many  a  sordid 
romance.  There  were  clerks  and  shopgirls;  old  fel- 
lows who  might  have  stepped  out  of  the  pages  of 
Honore  de  Balzac;  members,  male  and  female,  of 
the  professions  which  make  their  profit  of  the  frail- 
ties of  mankind.  There  is  in  the  streets  of  the 
poorer  quarters  of  Paris  a  thronging  vitality  which 
excites  the  blood  and  prepares  the  soul  for  the  un- 
expected. 

"Do  you  know  Paris  well?"  I  asked. 

"No.  We  came  on  our  honeymoon.  I  haven't 
been  since." 

"How  on  earth  did  you  find  out  your  hotel?" 

"It  was  recommended  to  me.  I  wanted  some- 
thing cheap." 

The  absinthe  came,  and  with  due  solemnity  we 
dropped  water  over  the  melting  sugar. 

"I  thought  rd  better  tell  you  at  once  why  I  had 
come  to  see  you,"  I  said,  not  without  embarrassment. 

His  eyes  twinkled. 

"I  thought  somebody  would  come  along  sooner 
or  later.     I've  had  a  lot  of  letters  from  Amy." 

"Then  you  know  pretty  well  what  I've  got  to  say." 

"I've  not  read  them." 

I  lit  a  cigarette  to  give  myself  a  moment's  time. 
I  did  not  quite  know  now  how  to  set  about  my 

63 


64  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

mission.  The  eloquent  phrases  I  had  arranged,  pa- 
thetic or  Indignant,  seemed  out  of  place  on  the  Ave- 
nue de  Clichy.    Suddenly  he  gave  a  chuckle. 

"Beastly  job  for  you  this.  Isn't  it?" 

*'0h,  I  don't  know,"  I  answered. 

"Well,  look  here,  you  get  it  over,  and  then  we'll 
have  a  jolly  evening." 

I  hesitated. 

"Has  it  occurred  to  you  that  your  wife  Is  frlght- 
ifully  unhappy?" 

"She'll  get  over  It." 

I  cannot  describe  the  extraordinary  callousness 
with  which  he  made  this  reply.  It  disconcerted  me, 
but  I  did  my  best  not  to  show  It.  I  adopted  the 
tone  used  by  my  Uncle  Henry,  a  clergyman,  when 
he  was  asking  one  of  his  relatives  for  a  subscription 
to  the  Additional  Curates  Society. 

"You  don't  mind  my  talking  to  you  frankly?" 

He  shook  his  head,  smiling. 

"Has  she  deserved  that  you  should  treat  her  like 
this?" 

"No." 

"Have  you  any  complaint  to  make  against  her?" 

"None." 

"Then,  isn't  it  monstrous  to  leave  her  In  this 
'fashion,  after  seventeen  years  of  married  life,  with- 
out a  fault  to  find  with  her?" 

"Monstrous." 

I  glanced  at  him  with  surprise.  His  cordial  agree- 
ment with  all  I  said  cut  the  ground  from  under  my 
feet.  It  made  my  position  complicated,  not  to  say 
ludicrous.    I  was  prepared  to  be  persuasive,  touch- 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  65 

jng,  and  hortatory,  admonitory  and  expostulating, 
if  need  be  vituperative  even,  indignant  and  sarcastic; 
but  what  the  devil  does  a  mentor  do  when  the  sin- 
ner makes  no  bones  about  confessing  his  sin?  I 
had  no  experience,  since  my  own  practice  has  always 
been  to  deny  everything. 

"What,  then?"  asked  Strickland. 

1  tried  to  curl  my  lip. 

"Well,  if  you  acknowledge  that,  there  doesn't 
seem  much  more  to  be  said." 

*'I  don't  think  there  is." 

I  felt  that  I  was  not  carrying  out  my  embassy  with 
any  great  skill.    I  was  distinctly  nettled. 

"Hang  it  all,  one  can't  leave  a  woman  without  a 
bob." 

"Why  not?" 

"How  Is  she  going  to  live?" 

"I've  supported  her  for  seventeen  years.  Why 
shouldn't  she  support  herself  for  a  change?" 

"She  can't." 

"Let  her  try.'* 

Of  course  there  were  many  thmgs  I  might  have 
answered  to  this.  I  might  have  spoken  of  the  eco- 
nomic position  of  woman,  of  the  contract,  tacit  and 
overt,  which  a  man  accepts  by  his  marriage,  and  of 
much  else;  but  I  felt  that  there  was  only  one  point 
which  really  signified. 

"Don't  you  care  for  her  any  more?" 

"Not  a  bit,"  he  replied. 

The  matter  was  Immensely  serious  for  all  the 
parties  concerned,  but  there  was  in  the  manner  of 
his  answers  such  a  cheerful  effrontery  that  I  had  to 


66  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

bite  my  lips  In  order  not  to  laugh.  I  reminded  my- 
self that  his  behaviour  was  abominable.  I  worked 
myself  up  into  a  state  of  moral  indignation. 

"Damn  it  all,  there  are  your  children  to  think 
of.  They've  never  doae  you  any  barm.  They 
didn't  ask  to  be  brought  into  the  world.  If  you 
chuck  everything  like  this,  they'll  be  thrown  on  the 
streets. 

"They've  had  a  good  many  years  of  comfort.  It's 
much  more  than  the  majority  of  children  have.  Be- 
sides, somebody  will  look  after  them.  When  it  comes 
to  the  point,  the  MacAndrews  will  pay  for  their 
schooling." 

"But  aren't  you  fond  of  them?  They're  such 
awfully  nice  kids.  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  don't 
want  to  have  anything  more  to  do  with  them?" 

"I  liked  them  all  right  when  they  were  kids,  but 
now  they're  growing  up  I  haven't  got  any  particular 
feeling  for  them." 

"It's  just  inhuman." 

"I  dare  say." 

"You  don't  seem  in  the  least  ashamed." 

"I'm  not." 

I  tried  another  tadc. 

"Everyone  will  think  you  a  perfect  swine." 

"Let  them." 

"Won't  it  mean  anything  to  you  to  know  that 
people  loathe  and  despise  you?" 

"No." 

iHis  brief  answer  was  so  scornful  that  it  made 
my  question,  natural  though  it  was,  seem  absurd, 
I  reflected  for  a  minute  or  two. 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  67 

**I  wonder  if  one  can  live  quite  comfortably  when 
bne's  conscious  of  the  disapproval  of  one's  fellows? 
Are  you  sure  it  won't  begin  to  worry  you?  Every- 
one has  some  sort  of  a  conscience,  and  sooner  or 
later  it  will  find  you  out.  Supposing  your  wife  died, 
wouldn't  you  be  tortured  by  remorse?" 

He  did  not  answer,  and  I  waited  for  some  time 
for  him  to  speak.  At  last  I  had  to  break  the  silence 
myself. 

**What  have  you  to  say  to  that?" 

*'Only  that  you're  a  damned  fool." 

"At  all  events,  you  can  be  forced  to  support  your 
wife  and  children,"  I  retorted,  somewhat  piqued. 
"I  suppose  the  law  has  some  protection;  to  offer 
them." 

"Can  the  law  get  blood  out  of  a  stone?  I 
haven't  any  money.  I've  got  about  a  hundred 
pounds." 

I  began  to  be  more  puzzled  than  before.  It  was 
true  that  his  hotel  pointed  to  the  most  straitened 
circumstances. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  when  you've  spent 
that?" 

"Earn  some." 

He  was  perfectly  cool,  and  his  eyes  kept  that 
mocking  smile  which  made  all  I  said  seem  rather 
foolish.  I  paused  for  a  little  while  to  consider  what 
I  had  better  say  next.  But  It  was  he  who  spoke 
first. 

"Why  doesn*t  Amy  marry  again?  She's  com- 
paratively young,  and  she's  not  unattractive.  I  can 
recommend  her  as  an  excellent  wife.     If  she  wants 


68  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

to  divorce  me  I  don't  mind  giving  her  the  necessary 
grounds." 

Now  it  was  my  turn  to  smile.  He  was  very  cun- 
ning, but  it  was  evidently  this  that  he  was  aiming 
at.  He  had  some  reason  to  conceal  the  fact  that 
he  had  run  away  with  a  woman,  and  he  was  using 
every  precaution  to  hide  her  whereabouts.  I  an- 
swered with  decision. 

"Your  wife  says  that  nothing  you  can  do  will 
ever  induce  her  to  divorce  you.  She's  quite  made 
up  her  mind.  You  can  put  any  possibility  of  that 
definitely  out  of  your  head." 

He  looked  at  me  with  an  astonishment  that  was 
certainly  not  feigned.  The  smile  abandoned  his  lips, 
and  he  spoke  quite  seriously. 

"But,  my  dear  fellow,  I  don't  care.  It  doesn't 
matter  a  twopenny  damn  to  me  one  way  or  the 
other." 

I  laughed. 

*'Oh,  come  now;  you  mustn't  think  us  such  fools 
as  all  that.  We  happen  to  know  that  you  came 
away  with  a  woman." 

He  gave  a  little  start,  and  then  suddenly  burst 
Into  a  shout  of  laughter.  He  laughed  so  uproar- 
iously that  people  sitting  near  us  looked  round,  and 
some  of  them  began  to  laugh  too. 

"I  don't  see  anything  very  amusing  in  that.'* 

"Poor  Amy,"  he  grinned. 

Then  his  face  grew  bitterly  scornful. 

"What  poor  minds  women  have  got!  Love.  It's 
always  love.  They  think  a  man  leaves  only 
because  he  wants  others.     Do  you  think  I  should 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  69 

be  such  a  fool  as  to  do  what  I've  done  for  a  woman?" 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  you  didn't  leave  your  wife 
for  another  woman?" 

*'0f  course  not." 

"On  your  word  of  honour?" 

I  don't  know  why  I  asked  for  that.  It  was  very 
ingenuous  of  me. 

"On  my  word  of  honour." 

"Then,  what  in  God's  name  have  you  left  her 
for?" 

"I  want  to  paint." 

I  looked  at  him  for  quite  a  long  time.  I  did  not 
understand.  I  thought  he  was  mad.  It  must  be 
remembered  that  I  was  very  young,  and  I  looked 
upon  him  as  a  middle-aged  man.  I  forgot  every- 
thing but  my  own  amazement. 

"But  you're  forty." 

"That's  what  made  me  think  it  was  high  time 
?.o  begin." 

"Have  you  ever  painted?" 

"I  rather  wanted  to  be  a  painter  when  I  was  a 
boy,  but  my  father  made  me  go  into  business  be- 
cause he  said  there  was  no  money  in  art.  I  began  to 
paint  a  bit  a  year  ago.  For  the  last  year  I've  been 
going  to  some  classes  at  night." 

"Was  that  where  you  went  when  Mrs.  Strickland 
thought  you  were  playing  bridge  at  your  club?" 

"That's  it." 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  her?" 

**I  preferred  to  keep  it  to  myself." 

**Can  you  paint?" 

"Not  yet.     But  I  shall.     That's  why  I've  come 


70  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

over  here.  I  couldn't  get  what  I  wanted  in  London. 
Perhaps  I  can  here." 

"Do  you  think  it's  likely  that  a  man  will  do  any 
good  when  he  starts  at  your  age?  Most  men  begin 
painting  at  eighteen." 

"I  can  learn  quicker  than  I  could  when  I  was 
eighteen." 

"What  makes  you  think  you  have  any  talent?" 

He  did  not  answer  for  a  minute.  His  gaze 
rested  on  the  passing  throng,  but  I  do  not  think  he 
saw  it.    His  answer  was  no  answer. 

"I've  got  to  paint." 

"Aren't  you  taking  an  awful  chance?" 

He  looked  at  me.  His  eyes  had  something 
strange  in  them,  so  that  I  felt  rather  uncomfortable. 

"How  old  are  you?    Twenty-three?" 

It  seemed  to  me  that  the  question  was  beside  the 
point.  It  was  natural  that  I  should  take  chances; 
but  he  was  a  man  whose  youth  was  past,  a  stock- 
broker with  a  position  of  respectability,  a  wife  and 
two  children.  A  course  that  would  have  been  nat- 
ural for  me  was  absurd  for  him.  I  wished  to  be 
quite  fair. 

"Of  course  a  miracle  may  happen,  and  you  may 
be  a  great  painter,  but  you  must  confess  the  chances 
are  a  million  to  one  against  it.  It'll  be  an  awful 
sell  if  at  the  end  you  have  to  acknowledge  youVe 
made  a  hash  of  it." 

"I've  got  to  paint,"  he  repeated. 

"Supposing  you're  never  anything  more  than 
third-rate^  do  you  think  it  will  have  been  worth 
while  to  give  up  everything?    After  all,  In  any  othet 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  71 

walK  In  life  it  doesn't  matter  if  you're  not  very 
good;  you  can  get  along  quite  comfortably  i£ 
you're  just  adequate;  but  it's  different  with  an 
artist." 

"You  blasted  fool,"  he  said. 

"I  don't  see  why,  unless  it's  folly  to  say  the 
obvious." 

"I  tell  you  I've  got  to  paint.  I  can't  help  myself. 
When  a  man  falls  into  the  water  it  doesn't  matter 
how  he  swims,  well  or  badly :  he's  got  to  get  out  or 
else  he'll  drown." 

There  was  real  passion  in  his  voice,  and  in  spite 
of  myself  I  was  impressed.  I  seemed  to  feel  in  him 
some  vehement  power  that  was  struggling  within 
him;  it  gave  me  the  sensation  of  something  very 
strong,  overmastering,  that  held  him,  as  it  were, 
against  his  will.  I  could  not  understand.  He  seemed 
really  to  be  possessed  of  a  devil,  and  I  felt  that  it 
might  suddenly  turn  and  rend  him.  Yet  he  looked 
ordinary  enough.  My  eyes,  resting  on  him  cur- 
iously, caused  him  no  embarrassment.  I  wondered 
what  a  stranger  would  have  taken  him  to  be,  sitting 
there  in  his  old  Norfolk  jacket  and  his  unbrushed 
bowler;  his  trousers  were  baggy,  his  hands  were  not 
clean;  and  his  face,  with  the  red  stubble  of  the 
unshaved  chin,  the  little  eyes,  and  the  large,  aggres- 
sive nose,  was  uncouth  and  coarse.  His  mouth  was 
large,  his  lips  were  heavy  and  sensual.  No;  I  could 
not  have  placed  him. 

**You  won't  go  back  to  your  wife?"  I  said  at  last. 

"Never." 

"She's  willing  to   forget  everything  that's  hap- 


72  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

pened  and  start  afresh.  She'll  never  make  you  a 
single  reproach." 

"She  can  go  to  hell." 

"You  don't  care  if  people  think  you  an  utter  black- 
guard? You  don't  care  if  she  and  your  children  have 
to  beg  their  bread?" 

"Not  a  damn." 

I  was  silent  for  a  moment  in  order  to  give  greater 
force  to  my  next  remark.  I  spoke  as  deliberately  as 
I  could. 

"You  are  a  most  unmitigated  cad.'* 

"Now  that  youVe  got  that  off  your  chest,  let's 
go  and  have  dinner." 


Chapter  XIII 

I  DARE  say  It  would  have  been  more  seemly 
to  decline  this  proposal.  I  think  perhaps  I 
should  have  made  a  show  of  the  indignation 
I  really  felt,  and  I  am  sure  that  Colonel  MacAndrew; 
at  least  would  have  thought  well  of  me  if  I  had 
been  able  to  report  my  stout  refusal  to  sit  at  the 
same  table  with  a  man  of  such  character.  But  the 
fear  of  not  being  able  to  carry  It  through  effectively 
has  always  made  me  shy  of  assuming  the  moral 
attitude;  and  In  this  case  the  certainty  that  my  sen- 
timents would  be  lost  on  Strickland  made  It  peculiarly 
embarrassing  to  utter  them.  Only  the  poet  or  the 
saint  can  water  an  asphalt  pavement  in  the  confi- 
dent anticipation  that  lilies  will  reward  his  labour. 

I  paid  for  what  we  had  drunk,  and  we  made  our 
way  to  a  cheap  restaurant,  crowded  and  gay,  where 
we  dined  with  pleasure.  I  had  the  appetite  of  youth 
and  he  of  a  hardened  conscience.  Then  we  went  to 
a  tavern  to  have  coffee  and  liqueurs. 

I  had  said  all  I  had  to  say  on  the  subject  that 
had  brought  me  to  Paris,  and  though  I  felt  It  In 
a  manner  treacherous  to  Mrs.  Strickland  not  to 
pursue  It,  I  could  not  struggle  against  his  Indifference. 
It  requires  the  feminine  temperament  to  repeat  the 
same  thing  three  times  with  unabated  zest.  I  sol- 
aced myself  by  thinking  that  It  would  be  useful  for 

me  to  find  out  what  I  could  about  Strickland's  state 

73 


74  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

of  mind.  It  also  interested  me  much  more.  But 
this  was  not  an  easy  thing  to  do,  for  Strickland  was 
not  a  fluent  talker.  He  seemed  to  express  himself 
with  difficulty,  as  though  words  were  not  the  medium 
with  which  his  mind  worked;  and  you  had  to  guess 
the  intentions  of  his  soul  by  hackneyed  phrases,  slang, 
and  vague,  unfinished  gestures.  But  though  he  said 
nothing  of  any  consequence,  there  was  something  in 
his  personality  which  prevented  him  from  being  dull. 
Perhaps  it  was  sincerity.  He  did  not  seem  to  care 
much  about  the  Paris  he  was  now  seeing  for  the 
first  time  (I  did  not  count  the  visit  with  his  wife), 
and  he  accepted  sights  which  must  have  been  strange 
to  him  without  any  sense  of  astonishment.  I  have 
been  to  Paris  a  hundred  times,  and  it  never  fails  to 
give  me  a  thrill  of  excitement;  I  can  never  walk  its 
streets  without  feeling  myself  on  the  verge  of  ad- 
venture. Strickland  remained  placid.  Looking  back, 
I  think  now  that  he  was  blind  to  everything  but  to 
some  disturbing  vision  in  his  soul. 

One  rather  absurd  Incident  took  place.  There 
were  a  number  of  harlots  in  the  tavern:  some  were 
sitting  with  men,  others  by  themselves;  and  presently 
I  noticed  that  one  of  these  was  looking  at  us.  When 
she  caught  Strickland's  eye  she  smiled.  I  do  not 
think  he  saw  her.  In  a  little  while  she  went  out, 
but  in  a  minute  returned  and,  passing  our  table, 
very  politely  asked  us  to  buy  her  something  to  drink. 
She  sat  down  and  I  began  to  chat  with  her;  but 
it  was  plain  that  her  interest  was  In  Strickland. 
I  explained  that  he  knew  no  more  than  two  words 
of  French.     She  tried  to  talk  to  him,  partly  by 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  75 

Signs,  partly  in  pidgin  French,  which,  for  some  rea- 
son, she  thought  would  be  more  comprehensible  to 
him,  and  she  had  half  a  dozen  phrases  of  English. 
She  made  me  translate  what  she  could  only  express 
in  her  own  tongue,  and  eagerly  asked  for  the  mean- 
ing of  his  replies.  He  was  quite  good-tempered,  a 
little  amused,  but  his  indifference  was  obvious. 

**I  think  you've  made  a  conquest,"  I  laughed. 

"I'm  not  flattered." 

In  his  place  I  should  have  been  more  embarrassed 
and  less  calm.  She  had  laughing  eyes  and  a  most 
charming  mouth.  She  was  young.  I  wondered  what 
she  found  so  attractive  in  Strickland.  She  made 
no  secret  of  her  desires,  and  I  was  bidden  to  trans- 
late. 

"She  wants  you  to  go  home  with  her." 

"I'm  not  taking  any,"  he  replied. 

I  put  his  answer  as  pleasantly  as  I  could.  It  seemed 
to  me  a  little  ungracious  to  decline  an  invitation  of 
that  sort,  and  I  ascribed  his  refusal  to  lack  of  money. 

"But  I  like  him,"  she  said.  "Tell  him  it's  for 
love." 

When  I  translated  this,  Strickland  shrugged  his 
shoulders  impatiently. 

"Tell  her  to  go  to  hell,"  he  said. 

His  manner  made  his  answer  quite  plain,  and  the 
girl  threw  back  her  head  with  a  sudden  gesture. 
Perhaps  she  reddened  under  her  paint.  She  rose  to 
her  feet. 

"Monsieur  n*est  pas  poll"  she  said. 

She  walked  out  of  the  inn.    I  was  slightly  vexed. 

"There  wasn't  any  need  to  insult  her  that  I  can 


76  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

see,"  I  said.  "After  all,  it  was  rather  a  compliment 
she  was  paying  you." 

"That  sort  of  thing  makes  me  sick,"  he  said 
roughly. 

I  looked  at  him  curiously.  There  was  a  real  dis- 
taste in  his  face,  and  yet  it  was  the  face  of  a  coarse 
and  sensual  man.  I  suppose  the  girl  had  been  at- 
tracted by  a  certain  brutality  in  it. 

"I  could  have  got  all  the  women  I  wanted  in 
London.    I  didn't  come  here  for  that." 


Chapter  XIV 

DURING  the  journey  back  to  England  I 
thought  much  of  Strickland.  I  tried  to  set 
in  order  what  I  had  to  tell  his  wife.  It 
was  unsatisfactory,  and  I  could  not  imagine  that 
she  would  be  content  with  me;  I  was  not  content 
with  myself.  Strickland  perplexed  me.  I  could  not 
understand  his  motives.  When  I  had  asked  him 
what  first  gave  him  the  idea  of  being  a  painter,  he 
was  unable  or  unwilling  to  tell  me.  I  could  make 
nothing  of  it.  I  tried  to  persuade  myself  than  an 
obscure  feeling  of  revolt  had  been  gradually  com- 
ing to  a  head  in  his  slow  mind,  but  to  challenge  this 
was  the  undoubted  fact  that  he  had  never  shown 
any  impatience  with  the  monotony  of  his  life.  If, 
seized  by  an  intolerable  boredom,  he  had  deter- 
mined to  be  a  painter  merely  to  break  with  irksome 
ties,  it  would  have  been  comprehensible,  and  com- 
monplace; but  commonplace  is  precisely  what  I  felt 
he  was  not.  At  last,  because  I  was  romantic,  I 
devised  an  explanation  which  I  acknowledged  to  be 
far-fetched,  but  which  was  the  only  one  that  in  any 
way  satisfied  me.  It  was  this :  I  asked  myself  wheth- 
er there  was  not  in  his  soul  some  deep-rooted  instinct 
of  creation,  which  the  circumstances  of  his  life  had 
obscured,  but  which  grew  relentlessly,  as  a  cancer 
may  grow  in  the  living  tissues,  till  at  last  it  tooK 
possession  of  his  whole  being  and  forced  him  irre- 
sistibly to  action.     The  cuckoo  lays  its  egg  in  the 

77 


78  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

strange  bird's  nest,  and  when  the  young  one  is 
hatched  it  shoulders  its  foster-brothers  out  and  breaks 
at  last  the  nest  that  has  sheltered  it. 

But  how  strange  it  was  that  tlie  creative  instinct 
should  seize  upon  this  dull  stockbroker,  to  his  own 
ruin,  perhaps,  and  to  the  misfortune  of  such  as 
were  dependent  on  him;  and  yet  no  stranger  than 
the  way  in  which  the  spirit  of  God  has  seized  men, 
powerful  and  rich,  pursuing  them  with  stubborn 
vigilance  till  at  last,  conquered,  they  have  abandoned 
the  joy  of  the  world  and  the  love  of  women  for 
the  painful  austerities  of  the  cloister.  Conversion 
may  come  under  many  shapes,  and  it  may  be  brought 
about  In  many  ways.  With  some  men  It  needs  a 
cataclysm,  as  a  stone  may  be  broken  to  fragments  by 
the  fury  of  a  torrent;  but  with  some  It  comes  grad- 
ually, as  a  stone  may  be  worn  away  by  the  cease- 
less fall  of  a  drop  of  water.  Strickland  had  the 
directness  of  the  fanatic  and  the  ferocity  of  the 
apostle. 

But  to  my  practical  mind  it  remained  to  be  seen 
whether  the  passion  which  obsessed  him  would  be 
justified  of  its  works.  When  I  asked  him  what  his 
brother-students  at  the  night  classes  he  had  attended 
in  London  thought  of  his  painting,  he  answered  with 
a  grin: 

*'They  thought  It  a  joke.'* 

**Have  you  begun  to  go  to  a  studio  here?" 

*'Yes.  The  blighter  came  round  this  morning-^ 
the  master,  you  know;  when  he  saw  my  drawing  he 
just  raised  his  eyebrows  and  walked  on." 

Strickland  chuckled.    He  did  not  seem  dlscouragedj 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  79 

He  was  independent  of  the  opinion  of  his  fel- 
lows. 

And  it  was  just  that  which  had  most  disconcerted 
me  in  my  dealings  with  him.  When  people  say  they 
do  not  care  what  others  think  of  them,  for  the  most 
part  they  deceive  themselves.  Generally  they  mean 
only  that  they  will  do  as  they  choose,  in  the  confi- 
dence that  no  one  will  know  their  vagaries;  and  at 
the  utmost  only  that  they  are  willing  to  act  con- 
trary to  the  opinion  of  the  majority  because  they 
are  supported  by  the  approval  of  their  neighbours. 
It  is  not  difficult  to  be  unconventional  in  the  eyes 
of  the  world  when  your  unconventionality  is  but  the 
convention  of  your  set.  It  affords  you  then  an  inor- 
dinate amount  of  self-esteem.  You  have  the  self- 
satisfaction  of  courage  without  the  inconvenience  of 
danger.  But  the  desire  for  approbation  is  perhaps 
the  most  deeply  seated  instinct  of  civilised  man.  No 
one  runs  so  hurriedly  to  the  cover  of  respectability 
as  the  unconventional  woman  who  has  exposed  her- 
self to  the  slings  and  arrows  of  outraged  propriety. 
I  do  not  believe  the  people  who  tell  me  they  do  not 
care  a  row  of  pins  for  the  opinion  of  their  fellows. 
It  is  the  bravado  of  ignorance.  They  mean  only  that 
they  do  not  fear  reproaches  for  peccadillos  which 
they  are  convinced  none  will  discover. 

But  here  was  a  man  who  sincerely  did  not  mind 
what  people  thought  of  him,  and  so  convention  had 
no  hold  on  him;  he  was  like  a  wrestler  whose  body 
is  oiled;  you  could  not  get  a  grip  on  him;  it  gave 
him  a  freedom  which  was  an  outrage.  I  remember 
saying  to  him : 


80  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

"Look  here,  if  everyone  acted  like  you,  tKe  world 
couldn't  go  on." 

"That's  a  damned  silly  thing  to  say.  Everyone 
doesn't  want  to  act  like  me.  The  great  majority 
are  perfectly  content  to  do  the  ordinary  thing.'* 

And  once  I  sought  to  be  satirical. 

"You  evidently  don't  believe  in  the  maxim:  Act 
so  that  every  one  of  your  actions  is  capable  of  being 
made  into  a  universal  rule." 

"I  never  heard  it  before,  but  It's  rotten  nonsense.'^ 

"Well,  it  was  Kant  who  said  it." 

"I  don't  care;  it's  rotten  nonsense." 

Nor  with  such  a  man  could  you  expect  the  appeal 
to  conscience  to  be  effective.  You  might  as  well  ask 
for  a  reflection  without  a  mirror.  I  take  it  that 
conscience  is  the  guardian  in  the  individual  of  the 
rules  which  the  community  has  evolved  for  its  own 
preservation.  It  is  the  policeman  in  all  our  hearts, 
set  there  to  watch  that  we  do  not  break  its  laws. 
It  is  the  spy  seated  in  the  central  stronghold  of  the 
ego.  Man's  desire  for  the  approval  of  his  fellows  is 
so  strong,  his  dread  of  their  censure  so  violent,  that 
he  himself  has  brought  his  enemy  within  his  gates; 
and  it  keeps  watch  over  him,  vigilant  always  in  the 
interests  of  its  master  to  crush  any  half-formed  de- 
sire to  break  away  from  the  herd.  It  will  force 
him  to  place  the  good  of  society  before  his  own.  It 
is  the  very  strong  link  that  attaches  the  individual  to 
the  whole.  And  man,  subservient  to  Interests  he 
has  persuaded  himself  are  greater  than  his  own, 
makes  himself  a  slave  to  his  taskmaster.  He  sits 
him  in  a  seat  of  honour.     At  last,  like  a  courtier 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  81 

fawning  on  the  royal  stick  that  is  laid  about  his 
shoulders,  he  prides  himself  on  the  sensitiveness  of 
his  conscience.  Then  he  has  no  words  hard  enough 
for  the  man  who  does  not  recognise  its  sway;  for, 
a  member  of  society  now,  he  realises  accurately 
enough  that  against  him  he  is  powerless.  When  I 
saw  that  Strickland  was  really  indifferent  to  the 
blame  his  conduct  must  excite,  I  could  only  draw 
back  in  horror  as  from  a  monster  of  hardly  human 
shape. 

The  last  words  he  said  to  me  when  I  bade  him 
good-night  were : 

"Tell  Amy  it's  no  good  coming  after  me.  Any* 
how,  I  shall  change  my  hotel,  so  she  wouldn't  be  able 
to  find  me." 

"My  own  impression  is  that  she's  well  rid  of  you," 
I  said. 

"My  dear  fellow,  I  only  hope  you'll  be  able  to 
TTiake  her  see  it.    But  women  are  very  unintelligent." 


Chapter  XV 

WHEN  I  reached  London  I  found  waiting 
for  me  an  urgent  request  that  I  should 
go  to  Mrs.  Strickland's  as  soon  after  din- 
ner as  I  could.  I  found  her  with  Colonel  Mac- 
Andrew  and  his  wife.  Mrs.  Strickland's  sister  was 
older  than  she,  not  unlike  her,  but  more  faded;  and 
she  had  the  efficient  air,  as  though  she  carried  the 
British  Empire  in  her  pocket,  which  the  wives  of 
senior  officers  acquire  from  the  consciousness  of  be- 
longing to  a  superior  caste.  Her  manner  was  brisk, 
and  her  good-breeding  scarcely  concealed  her  con- 
viction that  if  you  were  not  a  soldier  you  might 
as  well  be  a  counter-jumper.  She  hated  the  Guards, 
whom  she  thought  conceited,  and  she  could  not  trust 
herself  to  speak  of  their  ladies,  who  were  so  remiss 
in  calling.    Her  gown  was  dowdy  and  expensive. 

Mrs.  Strickland  was  plainly  nervous. 

"Well,  tell  us  your  news,"  she  said. 

"I  saw  your  husband.  I'm  afraid  he's  quite  made 
up  his  mind  not  to  return."  I  paused  a  little.  *'He 
wants  to  paint." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  cried  Mrs.  Strickland,  with 
the  utmost  astonishment. 

"Did  you  never  know  that  he  was  keen  on  thai 
sort  of  thing." 

"He  must  be  as  mad  as  a  hatter,"  exclaimed  the 
Colonel. 

82 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  89 

Mrs.  Strickland  frowned  a  little.  She  was  search- 
ing among  her  recollections. 

"I  remember  before  we  were  married  he  used 
to  potter  about  with  a  paint-box.  But  you  never  saw 
such  daubs.  We  used  to  chaff  him.  He  had  abso- 
lutely no  gift  for  anything  like  that." 

"Of  course  it's  only  an  excuse,"  said  Mrs.  Mac- 
Andrew. 

Mrs.  Strickland  pondered  deeply  for  some  time. 
It  was  quite  clear  that  she  could  not  make  head 
or  tail  of  my  announcement.  She  had  put  some 
order  into  the  drawing-room  by  now,  her  housewifely 
instincts  having  got  the  better  of  her  dismay;  and 
it  no  longer  bore  that  deserted  look,  like  a  furnished 
house  long  to  let,  which  I  had  noticed  on  my  first 
visit  after  the  catastrophe.  But  now  that  I  had 
seen  Strickland  in  Paris  it  was  difficult  to  imagine 
him  in  those  surroundings.  I  thought  it  could  hardly 
have  failed  to  strike  them  that  there  was  something 
incongruous  in  him. 

"But  if  he  wanted  to  be  an  artist,  why  didn't  he 
say  so?"  asked  Mrs.  Strickland  at  last.  "I  should 
have  thought  I  was  the  last  person  to  be  unsympa- 
thetic to — to  aspirations  of  that  kind." 

Mrs.  MacAndrew  tightened  her  lips.  I  imagine 
that  she  had  never  looked  with  approval  on  her  sis- 
ter's leaning  towards  persons  who  cultivated  the  arts. 
She  spoke  of  "culchaw"  derisively. 

Mrs.  Strickland  continued : 

**After  all,  if  he  had  any  talent  I  should  be  the 
frrst  to  encourage  it.  I  wouldn't  have  minded  sac- 
rifices.    I'd  much  rather  be  married  to  a  painter 


«4  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

than  to  a  stockbroker.  If  It  weren't  for  the  chlldrcfi, 
I  wouldn't  mind  anything.  I  could  be  just  as  happy 
in  a  shabby  studio  in  Chelsea  as  In  this  flat." 

"My  dear,  I  have  no  patience  with  you,"  cried 
Mrs.  MacAndrew.  "You  don't  mean  to  say  you 
believe  a  word  of  this  nonsense?" 

"But  I  think  It's  true,"  I  put  in  mildly. 

She  looked  at  me  with  good-humoured  con- 
iiempt. 

"A  man  doesn't  throw  up  his  business  and  leave 
his  wife  and  children  at  the  age  of  forty  to  become 
a  painter  unless  there's  a  woman  in  it.  I  suppose 
he  met  one  of  your — artistic  friends,  and  she's 
turned  his  head." 

A  spot  of  colour  rose  suddenly  to  Mrs.  Strick- 
land's pale  cheeks. 

"What  is  she  like?" 

I  hesitated  a  httle.    I  knew  that  I  had  a  bombshell. 

"There  isn't  a  woman." 

Colonel  MacAndrew  and  his  wife  uttered  expres- 
sions of  increduHty,  and  Mrs.  Strickland  sprang  to 
her  feet. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  you  never  saw  her?" 

"There's  no  one  to  see.     He's  quite  alone." 

"That's  preposterous,"  cried  Mrs.  MacAndrew. 

"I  knew  I  ought  to  have  gone  over  myself,"  said 
the  Colonel.  "You  can  bet  your  boots  I'd  have 
routed  her  out  fast  enough." 

"I  wish  you  had  gone  over,"  I  replied,  somewhat 
tartly.  "You'd  have  seen  that  every  one  of  your 
suppositions  was  wrong.  He's  not  at  a  smart  hotel. 
He's  living  in  one  tiny  room  in  the  most  squalid 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  85 

way.  If  he's  left  his  home,  it's  not  to  live  a  gay  life. 
He's  got  hardly  any  money." 

"Do  you  think  he's  done  something  that  we  don't 
know  about,  and  is  lying  doggo  on  account  of  the 
police  ?" 

The  suggestion  sent  a  ray  of  hope  In  all  their 
breasts,  but  I  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  it. 

"If  that  were  so,  he  would  hardly  have  been  such 
a  fool  as  to  give  his  partner  his  address,"  I  retorted 
acidly.  "Anyhow,  there's  one  thing  I'm  positive  of, 
he  didn't  go  away  with  anyone.  He's  not  in  love. 
Nothing  is  farther  from  his  thoughts." 

There  was  a  pause  while  they  reflected  over  my 
words. 

"Well,  if  what  you  say  is  true,"  said  Mrs.  Mac- 
Andrew  at  last,  "things  aren't  so  bad  as  I  thought'* 

Mrs.  Strickland  glanced  at  her,  but  said  nothing. 
She  was  very  pale  now,  and  her  fine  brow  was  dark 
and  lowering.  I  could  not  understand  the  expression 
•f  her  face.    Mrs.  MacAndrew  continued: 

"If  it's  just  a  whim,  he'll  get  over  it." 

"Why  don't  you  go  over  to  him.  Amy?"  hazarded 
the  Colonel.  "There's  no  reason  why  you  shouldn't 
live  with  him  in  Paris  for  a  year.  We'll  look  after 
the  children.  I  dare  say  he'd  got  stale.  Sooner  or 
later  he'll  be  quite  ready  to  come  back  to  London, 
and  no  great  harm  will  have  been  done." 

"I  wouldn't  do  that,"  said  Mrs.  MacAndrew. 
"I'd  give  him  all  the  rope  he  wants.  He'll  come 
back  with  his  tail  between  his  legs  and  settle  down 
again  quite  comfortably."  Mrs.  MacAndrew  looked 
at  her  sister  coolly.    "Perhaps  you  weren't  very  wise 


80  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

with  him  sometimes.  Men  are  queer  creatures,  and 
one  has  to  know  how  to  manage  them." 

Mrs.  MacAndrew  shared  the  common  opinion  of 
her  sex  that  a  man  is  always  a  brute  to  leave  a 
woman  who  is  attached  to  him,  but  that  a  woman  is 
much  to  blame  if  he  does.  Le  cosur  a  ses  raisons  que 
la  raison  ne  connait  pas. 

Mrs.  Strickland  looked  slowly  from  one  to  an- 
other of  us. 

"He'll  never  come  back,"  she  said. 

"Oh,  my  dear,  remember  what  we've  just  heard. 
He's  been  used  to  comfort  and  to  having  someone 
to  look  after  him.  How  long  do  you  think  it'll  be 
before  he  gets  tired  of  a  scrubby  room  in  a  scrubby 
hotel?  Besides,  he  hasn't  any  money.  He  must 
come  back." 

"As  long  as  I  thought  he'd  run  away  with  some 
woman  I  thought  there  was  a  chance.  I  don't  be- 
lieve that  sort  of  thing  ever  answers.  He'd  have  got 
sick  to  death  of  her  in  three  months.  But  if  he 
hasn't  gone  because  he's  in  love,  then  it's  finished." 

"Oh,  I  think  that's  awfully  subtle,"  said  the 
Colonel,  putting  into  the  word  all  the  contempt  he 
felt  for  a  quality  so  alien  to  the  traditions  of  his  call- 
ing. "Don't  you  believe  it.  He'll  come  back,  and,  as 
Dorothy  says,  I  dare  say  he'll  be  none  the  worse  for 
having  had  a  bit  of  a  fling." 

"But  I  don't  want  him  back,"  she  said. 

"Amy!" 

It  was  anger  that  had  seized  Mrs.  Strickland,  and 
her  pallor  was  the  pallor  of  a  cold  and  sudden  rage. 
She  spoke  quickly  now,  with  little  gasps. 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  87 

"I  could  have  forgiven  it  if  he'd  fallen  desperately 
in  love  with  someone  and  gone  off  with  her.  I  should 
have  thought  that  natural.  I  shouldn't  really  have 
blamed  him.  I  should  have  thought  he  was  led 
away.  Men  are  so  weak,  and  women  are  so  un- 
scrupulous. But  this  is  different.  I  hate  him.  I'll 
never  forgive  him  now." 

Colonel  MacAndrew  and  his  wife  began  to  talk 
to  her  together.  They  were  astonished.  They  told 
her  she  was  mad.  They  could  not  understand.  Mrs. 
Strickland  turned  desperately  to  me. 

"Don't  you  see?"  she  cried. 

"I'm  not  sure.  Do  you  mean  that  you  could  have 
forgiven  him  if  he'd  left  you  for  a  woman,  but  not 
if  he's  left  you  for  an  idea?  You  think  you're  a 
match  for  the  one,  but  against  the  other  you're  help- 
less?" 

Mrs.  Strickland  gave  me  a  look  in  which  I  read 
no  great  friendliness,  but  did  not  answer.  Perhaps 
I  had  struck  home.  She  went  on  in  a  low  and  trem- 
bling voice :  ' 

"I  never  knew  it  was  possible  to  hate  anyone  as 
much  as  I  hate  him.  Do  you  know,  I've  been  com- 
forting myself  by  thinking  that  however  long  it  lasted 
he'd  want  me  at  the  end?  I  knew  when  he  was  dying 
he'd  send  for  me,  and  I  was  ready  to  go;  I'd  have 
nursed  him  like  a  mother,  and  at  the  last  I'd  have 
told  him  that  it  didn't  matter,  I'd  loved  him  always, 
and  I  forgave  him  everything." 

I  have  always  been  a  little  disconcerted  by  the  pas- 
sion women  have  for  behaving  beautifully  at  the 
death-bed  of  those  they  love.     Sometimes  it  seems 


88  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

as  If  they  grudge  the  longevity  which  postpones  their 
chance  of  an  effective  scene. 

"But  now — now  it's  finished.  I'm  as  indifferent 
to  him  as  if  he  were  a  stranger.  I  should  like  him 
to  die  miserable,  poor,  and  starving,  without  a  friend. 
I  hope  he'll  rot  with  some  loathsome  disease.  I've 
done  with  him." 

I  thought  it  as  well  then  to  say  what  Strickland 
had  suggested. 

"If  you  want  to  divorce  him,  he's  quite  willing  to 
do  whatever  Is  necessary  to  make  it  possible." 

"Why  should  I  give  him  his  freedom?" 

"I  don't  think  he  wants  it.  He  merely  thought  it 
might  be  more  convenient  to  you." 

Mrs.  Strickland  shrugged  her  shoulders  Impatient- 
ly. I  think  I  was  a  little  disappointed  in  her.  I 
expected  then  people  to  be  more  of  a  piece  than  I  do 
now,  and  I  was  distressed  to  find  so  much  vindictlve- 
ness  in  so  charming  a  creature.  I  did  not  realise  how 
motley  are  the  qualities  that  go  to  make  up  a  human 
being.  Now  I  am  well  aware  that  pettiness  and  gran- 
deur, malice  and  charity,  hatred  and  love,  can  find 
place  side  by  side  in  the  same  human  heart. 

I  wondered  if  there  was  anything  I  could  say  that 
would  ease  the  sense  of  bitter  humiliation  which  at 
present  tormented  Mrs.  Strickland.  I  thought  I 
would  try. 

"You  know,  I'm  not  sure  that  your  husband  is 
quite  responsible  for  his  actions.  I  do  not  think  he 
is  himself.  He  seems  to  me  to  be  possessed  by  some 
power  which  Is  using  him  for  Its  own  ends,  and  in 
whose  hold  he  is  as  helpless  as  a  fly  In  a  spider's  web. 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  89' 

It's  as  though  someone  had  cast  a  spell  over  him. 
I'm  reminded  of  those  strange  stories  one  sometimes 
hears  of  another  personality  entering  into  a  man  and 
driving  out  the  old  one.  The  soul  lives  unstably  in 
the  body,  and  is  capable  of  mysterious  transforma- 
tions. In  the  old  days  they  would  say  Charles  Strick- 
'iand  had  a  devil." 

Mrs.  MacAndrew  smoothed  down  the  lap  of  her 
gown,  and  gold  bangles  fell  over  her  wrists. 

"All  that  seems  to  me  very  far-fetched,"  she  said 
acidly.  "I  don't  deny  that  perhaps  Amy  took  her 
husband  a  little  too  much  for  granted.  If  she  hadn't 
been  so  busy  with  her  own  affairs,  I  can't  believe  that 
she  wouldn't  have  suspected  something  was  the  mat- 
ter. I  don't  think  that  Alec  could  have  something 
on  his  mind  for  a  year  or  more  without  my  having 
A  pretty  shrewd  idea  of  it." 

The  Colonel  stared  into  vacancy,  and  I  wondered 
tvhether  anyone  could  be  quite  so  innocent  of  guile 
as  he  looked. 

"But  that  doesn't  prevent  the  fact  that  Charles 
Strickland  is  a  heartless  beast."  She  looked  at  me 
severely.  "I  can  tell  you  why  he  left  his  wife — from 
pure  selfishness  and  nothing  else  whatever." 

"That  is  certainly  the  simplest  explanation,"  I  said. 
But  I  thought  it  explained  nothing.  When,  saying  I 
was  tired,  I  rose  to  go,  Mrs.  Strickland  made  no  at- 
tempt to  detain  me. 


Chapter  XVI 

WHAT  followed  showed  that  Mrs.  Strickland 
was  a  woman  of  character.  Whatever  an- 
guish she  suffered  she  concealed.  She  saw 
shrewdly  that  the  world  is  quickly  bored  by  the  recital 
of  misfortune,  and  willingly  avoids  the  sight  of  dis- 
tress. Whenever  she  went  out — and  compassion  for 
her  misadventure  made  her  friends  eager  to  entertain 
her — she  bore  a  demeanour  that  was  perfect.  She 
was  brave,  but  not  too  obviously;  cheerful,  but  not 
brazenly;  and  she  seemed  more  anxious  to  listen  to 
the  troubles  of  others  than  to  discuss  her  own.  When- 
ever she  spoke  of  her  husband  it  was  with  pity.  Her 
attitude  towards  him  at  first  perplexed  me.  One  day 
she  said  to  me : 

"You  know,  I'm  convinced  you  were  mistaken  about 
Charles  being  alone.  From  what  I've  been  able  to 
gather  from  certain  sources  that  I  can't  tell  you,  I 
know  that  he  didn't  leave  England  by  himself." 

"In  that  case  he  has  a  positive  genius  for  covering 
up  his  tracks." 

She  looked  away  and  slightly  coloured. 

"What  I  mean  is,  if  anyone  talks  to  you  about  it,' 
please  don't  contradict  it  if  they  say  he  eloped  with 
somebody." 

"Of  course  not." 

She  changed  the  conversation  as  though  it  were  a 
matter  to  which  she  attached  no  importance.  I  dis- 
covered presently  that  a  peculiar  story  was  circulating 

90 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  91 

among  her  friends.  They  said  that  Charles  Strick- 
land had  become  Infatuated  with  a  French  dancer, 
whom  he  had  first  seen  In  the  ballet  at  the  Empire, 
and  had  accompanied  her  to  Paris.  I  could  not  find 
out  how  this  had  arisen,  but,  singularly  enough,  it 
created  much  sympathy  for  Mrs.  Strickland,  and  at 
the  same  time  gave  her  not  a  little  prestige.  This  was 
not  without  its  use  In  the  calling  which  she  had  de- 
cided to  follow.  Colonel  MacAndrew  had  not  exag- 
gerated when  he  said  she  would  be  penniless,  and  it 
was  necessary  for  her  to  earn  her  own  living  as  quick- 
ly as  she  could.  She  made  up  her  mind  to  profit  by 
her  acquaintance  with  so  many  writers,  and  without 
loss  of  time  began  to  learn  shorthand  and  typewrit- 
ing. Her  education  made  it  likely  that  she  would  be 
a  typist  more  efficient  than  the  average,  and  her  story 
made  her  claims  appealing.  Her  friends  promised 
to  send  her  work,  and  took  care  to  recommend  her 
to  all  theirs. 

The  MacAndrews,  who  were  childless  and  in  easy 
circumstances,  arranged  to  undertake  the  care  of  the 
children,  and  Mrs.  Strickland  had  only  herself  to 
provide  for.  She  let  her  flat  and  sold  her  furniture. 
She  settled  in  two  tiny  rooms  In  Westminster,  and 
faced  the  world  anew.  She  was  so  efficient  that  it 
was  certain  she  would  make  a  success  of  the  adven- 
ture. 


Chapter  XVII 

IT  was  about  five  years  after  this  that  I  decided  to 
live  in  Paris  for  a  while.  I  was  growing  stale  in 
London.  I  was  tired  of  doing  much  the  same 
thing  every  day.  My  friends  pursued  their  course 
with  unerentfulness ;  they  had  no  longer  any  surprises 
for  me,  and  when  I  met  them  I  knew  pretty  well  what 
they  would  say;  even  their  love-affairs  had  a  tedious 
banality.  We  were  like  tram-cars  running  on  their 
lines  from  terminus  to  terminus,  and  it  was  possible 
to  calculate  within  small  limits  the  number  of  pas- 
sengers they  would  carry.  Life  was  ordered  too 
pleasantly.  I  was  seized  with  panic.  I  gave  up  my 
small  apartment,  sold  my  few  belongings,  and  re- 
solved to  start  afresh. 

I  called  on  Mrs.  Strickland  before  I  left.  I  had 
not  seen  her  for  some  time,  and  I  noticed  changes  in 
her:  it  was  not  only  that  she  was  older,  thinner,  and 
more  lined;  I  think  her  character  had  altered.  She 
had  made  a  success  of  her  business,  and  now  had 
an  office  in  Chancery  Lane;  she  did  little  typing  her- 
self, but  spent  her  time  correcting  the  work  of  the 
four  girls  she  employed.  She  had  had  the  idea  of 
giving  it  a  certain  daintiness,  and  she  made  much  use 
of  blue  and  red  Inks;  she  bound  the  copy  in  coarse 
paper,  that  looked  vaguely  like  watered  silk,  in  var- 
ious pale  colours ;  and  she  had  acquired  a  reputation 
for  neatness  and  accuracy.     She  was  making  money. 

But  she  could  not  get  over  the  Idea  that  to  earn  her 

92 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  9$ 

living  was  somewhat  undignified,  and  she  was  in- 
clined to  remind  you  that  she  was  a  lady  by  birth. 
She  could  not  help  bringing  into  her  conversation  the 
names  of  people  she  knew  which  would  satisfy  you 
that  she  had  not  sunk  In  the  social  scale.  She  v/as  a 
little  ashamed  of  her  courage  and  business  capacity, 
but  delighted  that  she  was  going  to  dine  the  next 
night  with  a  K.C.  who  lived  in  South  Kensington. 
She  was  pleased  to  be  able  to  tell  you  that  her  son 
was  at  Cambridge,  and  it  was  with  a  little  laugh  that 
she  spoke  of  the  rush  of  dances  to  which  her  daugh- 
ter, just  out,  was  invited.  I  suppose  I  said  a  very 
stupid  thing. 

"Is  she  going  into  your  business?"  I  asked. 

"Oh  no;  I  wouldn't  let  her  do  that,"  Mrs.  Strick- 
land answered.  "She's  so  pretty.  I'm  sure  she'll 
marry  well." 

"I  should  have  thought  It  would  be  a  help  to  you." 

"Several  people  have  suggested  that  she  should  go 
on  the  stage,  but  of  course  I  couldn't  consent  to  that, 
I  know  all  the  chief  dramatists,  and  I  could  get  her 
a  part  to-m.orrow,  but  I  shouldn't  like  her  to  mix  with 
all  sorts  of  people." 

I  was  a  little  chilled  by  Mrs.  Strickland's  excluslve- 
ness. 

"Do  you  ever  hear  of  your  husband?" 

"No;  I  haven't  heard  a  word.  He  may  be  dead 
for  all  I  know." 

"I  may  run  across  him  In  Paris.  Would  you  like 
me  to  let  you  know  about  him  ?" 

She  hesitated  a  minute. 

"If  he's  In  any  real  want  I'm  prepared  to  helfr 


M  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

him  a  little.  I'd  send  you  a  certain  sum  of  money,  and 
you  could  give  it  him  gradually,  as  he  needed  it." 

"That's  very  good  of  you,"  I  said. 

But  I  knew  it  was  not  kindness  that  prompted  the 
offer.  It  is  not  true  that  suffering  ennobles  the  char- 
acter; happiness  does  that  sometimes,  but  suffering, 
for  the  most  part,  makes  men  petty  and  vindictive. 


Chapter  XVIII 

IN  point  of  fact,  I  met  Strickland  before  I  had 
been  a  fortnight  in  Paris. 

I  quickly  found  myself  a  tiny  apartment  on 
the  fifth  floor  of  a  house  in  the  Rue  des  Dames,  and 
for  a  couple  of  hundred  francs  bought  at  a  second- 
hand dealer's  enough  furniture  to  make  it  habitable. 
I  arranged  with  the  concierge  to  make  my  coffee  in 
the  morning  and  to  keep  the  place  clean.  Then  I 
went  to  see  my  friend  Dirk  Stroeve. 

Diri:  Stroeve  was  one  of  those  persons  whom,  ac- 
cording to  your  character,  you  cannot  think  of  without 
derisive  laughter  or  an  embarrassed  shrug  of  the 
shoulders.  Nature  had  made  him  a  buffoon.  He  was 
a  painter,  but  a  very  bad  one,  whom  I  had  met  in 
Rome,  and  I  still  remembered  his  pictures.  He  had  a 
genuine  enthusiasm  for  the  commonplace.  His  soul 
palpitating  with  love  of  art,  he  painted  the  models 
who  hung  about  the  stairway  of  Bernini  In  the  Piazza 
de  Spagna,  undaunted  by  their  obvious  plcturesque- 
ness;  and  his  studio  was  full  of  canvases  on  which 
were  portrayed  moustachioed,  large-eyed  peasants  m 
peaked  hats,  urchins  In  becoming  rags,  and  women  In 
bright  petticoats.  Sometimes  they  lounged  at  the 
steps  of  a  church,  and  sometimes  dallied  among  cy- 
presses against  a  cloudless  sky;  sometimes  they  made 
love  by  a  Renaissance  well-head,  and  sometimes 
they  wandered  through  the  Campagna  by  the  side  of 
an  ox-waggon.    They  were  carefully  drawn  and  caro 

95 


9S  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

fully  painted.  A  photograph  could  not  have  been 
more  exact.  One  of  the  painters  at  the  Villa  Medici 
had  called  him  Le  Maitre  de  la  BoUe  a  Chocolats. 
To  look  at  his  pictures  you  would  have  thought  that 
Monet,  Manet,  and  the  rest  of  the  Impressionists  had 
never  been. 

"I  don't  pretend  to  be  a  great  painter,"  he  said. 
"I'm  not  a  Michael  Angelo,  no,  but  I  have  some- 
thing. I  sell.  I  bring  romance  into  the  homes  of  all 
sorts  of  people.  Do  you  know,  they  buy  my  pictures 
not  only  in  Holland,  but  In  Norway  and  Sweden  and 
Denmark?  It's  mostly  merchants  who  buy  them,  and 
rich  tradesmen.  You  can't  imagine  what  the  winters 
are  like  In  those  countries,  so  long  and  dark  and  cold. 
They  like  to  think  that  Italy  Is  like  my  pictures. 
That's  what  they  expect.  That's  what  I  expected 
Italy  to  be  before  I  came  here." 

And  I  think  that  was  the  vision  that  had  remained 
with  him  always,  dazzling  his  eyes  so  that  he  could 
not  see  the  truth;  and  notwithstanding  the  brutality 
of  fact,  he  continued  to  see  with  the  eyes  of  the  spirit 
an  Italy  of  romantic  brigands  and  picturesque  ruins. 
It  was  an  Ideal  that  he  painted — a  poor  one,  common 
and  shop-soiled,  but  still  It  was  an  ideal;  and  it  gave 
his  character  a  peculiar  charm. 

It  was  because  I  felt  this  that  Dirk  Stroeve  was  not 
to  me,  as  to  others,  merely  an  object  of  ridicule.  His 
fellow-painters  made  no  secret  of  their  contempt  for 
his  work,  but  he  earned  a  fair  amount  of  money,  and 
they  did  not  hesitate  to  make  free  use  of  his  purse. 
He  was  generous,  and  the  needy,  laughing  at  him  be- 
cause he  believed  so  naively  their  stories  of  distress, 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  97 

borrowed  from  him  with  effrontery.  He  was  very 
emotional,  yet  his  feeling,  so  easily  aroused,  had  in 
it  something  absurd,  so  that  you  accepted  his  kind* 
ness,  but  felt  no  gratitude.  To  take  money  from  him 
was  like  robbing  a  child,  and  you  despised  him  be- 
cause he  was  so  foolish.  I  imagine  that  a  pickpocket; 
proud  of  his  light  fingers,  must  feel  a  sort  of  indigna- 
tion with  the  careless  woman  who  leaves  in  a  cab  a 
vanity-bag  with  all  her  jewels  in  it.  Nature  had 
made  him  a  butt,  but  had  denied  him  insensibility. 
He  writhed  under  the  jokes,  practical  and  otherwise, 
which  were  perpetually  made  at  his  expense,  and  yet 
never  ceased,  it  seemed  wilfully,  to  expose  himself 
to  them.  He  was  constantly  wounded,  and  yet  his 
good-nature  was  such  that  he  could  not  bear  malice : 
the  viper  might  sting  him,  but  he  never  learned  by  ex- 
perience, and  had  no  sooner  recovered  from  his  pain 
than  he  tenderly  placed  it  once  more  in  his  bosom. 
His  life  was  a  tragedy  written  in  the  terms  of  knock- 
about farce.  Because  I  did  not  laugh  at  him  he  was 
grateful  to  me,  and  he  used  to  pour  into  my  sympa- 
thetic ear  the  long  list  of  his  troubles.  The  saddest 
thing  about  them  was  that  they  were  grotesque,  and 
the  more  pathetic  they  were,  the  more  you  wanted  to 
laugh. 

But  though  so  bad  a  painter,  he  had  a  very  delicate 
feeling  for  art,  and  to  go  with  him  to  picture-galleries 
was  a  rare  treat.  His  enthusiasm  was  sincere  and  his 
criticism  acute.  He  was  catholic.  He  had  not  only 
a  true  appreciation  of  the  old  masters,  but  sympathy 
with  the  moderns.  He  was  quick  to  discover  talent, 
and  his  praise  was  generous.     I  think  I  have  never 


98  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

known  a  man  whose  judgment  was  surer.  And  he  was 
better  educated  than  most  painters.  He  was  not, 
like  most  of  them,  ignorant  of  kindred  arts,  and  his 
taste  for  music  and  literature  gave  depth  and  variety 
to  his  comprehension  of  painting.  To  a  young  man 
like  myself  his  advice  and  guidance  were  of  incom- 
parable value. 

When  I  left  Rome  I  corresponded  with  him,  and 
about  once  in  two  months  received  from  him  long  let- 
ters in  queer  English,  which  brought  before  me  vivid- 
ly his  spluttering,  enthusiastic,  gesticulating  conversa- 
tion. Some  time  before  I  went  to  Paris  he  had 
married  an  Englishwoman,  and  was  now  settled  in 
a  studio  In  Montmartre.  I  had  not  seen  him  for  four 
years,  and  had  never  met  his  wife. 


Chapter  XIX 

I  HAD  not  announced  my  arrival  to  Stroeve,  and 
when  I  rang  the  bell  of  his  studio,  on  opening 
the  door  himself,  for  a  moment  he  did  not  know 
me.  Then  he  gave  a  cry  of  delighted  surprise  and 
drew  me  in.  It  was  charming  to  be  welcomed  with 
so  much  eagerness.  His  wife  was  seated  near  the 
stove  at  her  sewing,  and  she  rose  as  I  came  In.  He 
introduced  me. 

"Don't  you  remember?"  he  said  to  her.  "I've 
talked  to  you  about  him  often."  And  then  to  me: 
"But  why  didn't  you  let  me  know  you  were  coming? 
How  long  have  you  been  here?  How  long  are  you 
going  to  stay?  Why  didn't  you  come  an  hour  earlier, 
and  we  would  have  dined  together?" 

He  bombarded  me  with  questions.  He  sat  me 
down  in  a  chair,  patting  me  as  though  I  were  a  cush- 
ion, pressed  cigars  upon  me,  cakes,  wine.  He  could 
not  let  me  alone.  He  was  heart-broken  because 
he  had  no  whisky,  wanted  to  make  coffee  for  me, 
racked  his  brain  for  something  he  could  possibly  do 
'for  me,  and  beamed  and  laughed,  and  in  the  exuber- 
ance of  his  delight  sweated  at  every  pore. 

"You  haven't  changed,"  I  said,  smiling,  as  I  looked 
at  him. 

He  had  the  same  absurd  appearance  that  I  remem- 
bered. He  was  a  fat  little  man,  with  short  legs, 
young  still — he  could  not  have  been  more  than  thirty 

99 


100  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

- — but  prematurely  bald.  His  face  was  perfectly 
round,  and  he  had  a  very  high  colour,  a  white  skin, 
red  cheeks,  and  red  Hps.  His  eyes  were  blue  and 
round  too,  he  wore  large  gold-rimmed  spectacles,  and 
his  eyebrows  were  so  fair  that  you  could  not  see  them. 
He  reminded  you  of  those  jolly,  fat  merchants  that 
jRubens  painted. 

When  I  told  him  that  I  meant  to  live  In  Paris  for  a 
while,  and  had  taken  an  apartment,  he  reproached  mc 
bitterly  for  not  having  let  him  know.  He  would  have 
found  me  an  apartment  himself,  and  lent  me  furni- 
ture— did  I  really  mean  that  I  had  gone  to  the  ex- 
pense of  buying  it? — and  he  would  have  helped  me 
to  move  in.  He  really  looked  upon  it  as  unfriendly 
that  I  had  not  given  him  the  opportunity  of  making 
himself  useful  to  me.  Meanwhile,  Mrs.  Stroeve  sat 
quietly  mending  her  stockings,  without  talking,  and 
she  listened  to  all  he  said  with  a  quiet  smile  on  her 
lips. 

"So,  you  see,  I'm  married,"  he  said  suddenly; 
"what  do  you  think  of  my  wife?" 

He  beamed  at  her,  and  settled  his  spectacles  on 
the  bridge  of  his  nose.  The  sweat  made  them  con- 
stantly slip  down. 

"What  on  earth  do  you  expect  me  to  say  to  that?" 
I  laughed. 

"Really,  Dirk,"  put  in  Mrs.  Stroeve,  smiling. 

"But  isn't  she  wonderful?  I  tell  you,  my  boy,  lose 
no  time;  get  married  as  soon  as  ever  you  can.  I'm 
the  happiest  man  alive.  Look  at  her  sitting  there. 
Doesn't  she  make  a  picture?  Chardin,  eh?  I've  seen 
all  the  most  beautiful  women  in  the  world;  I've  never 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  101 

seen  anyone  more  beautiful  than  Madame  Dirk 
Stroeve." 

"If  you  don't  be  quiet,  Dirk,  I  shall  go  away." 

"Mon  petit  choux,"  he  said. 

She  flushed  a  little,  embarrassed  by  the  passion  in 
his  tone.  His  letters  had  told  me  that  he  was  very 
much  in  love  with  his  wife,  and  I  saw  that  he  could 
hardly  take  his  eyes  oft  her.  I  could  not  tell  If  she 
loved  him.  Poor  pantaloon,  he  was  not  an  object  to 
excite  love,  but  the  smile  in  her  eyes  was  affectionate, 
and  it  was  possible  that  her  reserve  concealed  a  very 
deep  feeling.  She  was  not  the  ravishing  creature  that 
his  love-sick  fancy  saw,  but  she  had  a  grave  comeli- 
ness. She  was  rather  tall,  and  her  gray  dress,  simple 
and  quite  well-cut,  did  not  hide  the  fact  that  her  fig- 
ure was  beautiful.  It  was  a  figure  that  might  have 
appealed  more  to  the  sculptor  than  to  the  costumier^ 
Her  hair,  brown  and  abundant,  was  plainly  done, 
her  face  was  very  pale,  and  her  features  were  good 
without  being  distinguished.  She  had  quiet  gray  eyes. 
She  just  missed  being  beautiful,  and  in  missing  it  was 
not  even  pretty.  But  v/hen  Stroeve  spoke  of  Chardin 
it  was  not  without  reason,  and  she  reminded  me  cu- 
riously of  that  pleasant  housewife  in  her  mob-cap 
and  apron  whom  the  great  painter  has  immortalised. 
I  could  imagine  her  sedately  busy  among  her  pots 
and  pans,  making  a  ritual  of  her  household  duties, 
so  that  they  acquired  a  moral  significance;  I  did  not 
suppose  that  she  was  clever  or  could  ever  be  amusing, 
but  there  was  something  in  her  grave  intentness  which 
excited  my  interest.  Her  reserve  was  not  without 
mystery.     I  wondered  why  she  had  married  Dirk 


102  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

Stroeve.  Though  she  was  English,  I  could  not  ex- 
actly place  her,  and  it  was  not  obvious  from  what 
rank  in  society  she  sprang,  what  had  been  her  up- 
bringing, or  how  she  had  lived  before  her  marriage. 
She  was  very  silent,  but  when  she  spoke  it  was  with 
a  pleasant  voice,  and  her  manners  were  natural. 

I  asked  Stroeve  if  he  was  working. 

"Working?  Fm  painting  better  than  IVe  ever 
painted  before." 

We  sat  in  the  studio,  and  he  waved  his  hand  to 
an  unfinished  picture  on  an  easel.  I  gave  a  little 
start.  He  was  painting  a  group  of  Italian  peasants, 
in  the  costume  of  the  Campagna,  lounging  on  the 
steps  of  a  Roman  church. 

*'Is  that  what  you're  doing  now?"  I  asked. 

"Yes.  I  can  get  my  models  here  just  as  well  as 
In  Rome." 

"Don't  you  think  it's  very  beautiful?"  said  Mrs. 
Stroeve. 

"This  foolish  wife  of  mine  thinks  I'm  a  great 
artist,"  said  he. 

His  apologetic  laugh  did  not  disguise  the  pleasure 
that  he  felt.  His  eyes  lingered  on  his  picture.  It 
was  strange  that  his  critical  sense,  so  accurate  and 
unconventional  when  he  dealt  with  the  work  of  others, 
should  be  satisfied  in  himself  with  what  was  hack- 
neyed and  vulgar  beyond  belief. 

"Show  him  some  more  of  your  pictures,"  she  said. 

"Shall  I?" 

Though  he  had  suffered  so  much  from  the  ridicule 
of  his  friends,  Dirk  Stroeve,  eager  for  praise  and 
naively  self-satisfied,  could  never  resist  displaying  his 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  103 

warlc.  He  brought  out  a  picture  of  two  curly-headed 
Italian  urchins  playing  marbles. 

"Aren't  they  sweet?"  said  Mrs.  Stroeve. 

And  then  he  showed  me  more.  I  discovered  that 
in  Paris  he  had  been  painting  just  the  same  stale, 
obviously  picturesque  things  that  he  had  painted  for 
years  in  Rome.  It  was  all  false,  insincere,  shoddy; 
and  yet  no  one  was  more  honest,  sincere,  and  frank 
than  Dirk  Stroeve.  Who  could  resolve  the  contra- 
diction ? 

I  do  not  know  what  put  It  into  my  head  to  ask: 

"I  say,  have  you  by  any  chance  run  across  a 
painter  called  Charles  Strickland?" 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  you  know  him?"  cried 
Stroeve. 

"Beast,"  said  his  wife. 

Stroeve  laughed. 

"Ma  pauvre  cherie,"  He  went  over  to  her  and 
kissed  both  her  hands.  "She  doesn't  like  him.  How 
strange  that  you  should  know  Strickland  1" 

"I  don't  like  bad  manners,"  said  Mrs.  Stroeve. 

Dirk,  laughing  still,  turned  to  me  to  explain. 

"You  see,  I  asked  him  to  come  here  one  day  and 
look  at  my  pictures.  Well,  he  came,  and  I  showed 
him  everything  I  had."  Stroeve  hesitated  a  moment 
with  embarrassment.  I  do  not  know  why  he  had 
begun  the  story  against  himself ;  he  felt  an  awkward- 
ness at  finishing  It.  "He  looked  at^ — at  my  pictures, 
and  he  didn't  say  anything.  I  thought  he  was  re- 
serving his  judgment  till  the  end.  And  at  last  I  said : 
*There,  that's  the  lot!'  He  said:  *I  came  to  ask 
you  to  lend  me  twenty  francs.'  " 


104  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

"And  Dirk  actually  gave  It  him,"  said  his  wife  in- 
dignantly. 

"I  was  so  taken  aback.  I  didn't  like  to  refuse.  He 
put  the  money  in  his  pocket,  just  nodded,  said 
'Thanks,'  and  walked  out." 

Dirk  Stroeve,  telling  the  story,  had  such  a  look  of 
blank  astonishment  on  his  round,  foolish  face  that 
it  was  almost  impossible  not  to  laugh. 

"I  shouldn't  have  minded  if  he'd  said  my  pictures 
were  bad,  but  he  said  nothing — nothing." 

"And  you  will  tell  the  story,  Dirk,"  said  his  wife. 

It  was  lamentable  that  one  was  more  amused  by 
the  ridiculous  figure  cut  by  the  Dutchman  than  out- 
raged by  Strickland's  brutal  treatment  of  him. 

"I  hope  I  shall  never  see  him  again,"  said  Mrs. 
Stroeve. 

Stroeve  smiled  and  shrugged  his  shoulders.  He 
had  already  recovered  his  good-humour. 

"The  fact  remains  that  he's  a  great  artist,  a  very 
great  artist." 

"Strickland?"  I  exclaimed.  "It  can*t  be  the  same 
man." 

"A  big  fellow  with  a  red  beard.  Charles  Strick- 
land.   An  Englishman." 

"He  had  no  beard  when  I  knew  him,  but  if 
he  has  grown  one  it  might  well  be  red.  The 
man  I'm  thinking  of  only  began  painting  five  years 
ago. 

"That's  it.    He's  a  great  artist." 

"Impossible." 

"Have  I  ever  been  mistaken  ?"  Dirk  asked  me.  "I 
tell  you  he  has  genius.    I'm  convinced  of  It.    In  a  hun- 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  103 

dred  years,  If  you  and  I  are  remembered  at  all,  It  will 
be  because  we  knew  Charles  Strickland." 

I  was  astonished,  and  at  the  same  time  I  was  very 
much  excited.  I  remembered  suddenly  my  last  talk 
with  him. 

"Where  can  one  see  his  work?"  I  asked.  "Is  he 
having  any  success?    Where  is  he  living?" 

**No;  he  has  no  success.  I  don't  think  he's  ever 
sold  a  picture.  When  you  speak  to  men  about  him 
they  only  laugh.  But  I  know  he's  a  great  artist. 
After  all,  they  laughed  at  Manet.  Corot  never  sold 
a  picture.  I  don't  know  where  he  lives,  but  I  can 
take  you  to  see  him.  He  goes  to  a  cafe  in  the  Avenue 
de  Clichy  at  seven  o'clock  every  evening.  If  you  like 
we'll  go  there  to-morrow." 

"I'm  not  sure  If  he'll  wish  to  see  me.  I  think  I 
may  remind  him  of  a  time  he  prefers  to  forget.  But 
I'll  come  all  the  same.  Is  there  any  chance  of  seeing 
any  of  his  pictures?" 

"Not  from  him.  He  won't  show  you  a  thing. 
There's  a  little  dealer  I  know  who  has  two  or  three. 
But  you  musn't  go  without  me;  you  wouldn't  under- 
stand.   I  must  show  them  to  you  myself." 

"Dirk,  you  make  me  Impatient,"  said  Mrs.  Stroeve. 
"How  can  you  talk  like  that  about  his  pictures  when 
he  treated  you  as  he  did?"  She  turned  to  me.  "Do 
you  know,  when  some  Dutch  people  came  here  to  buy 
Dirk's  pictures  he  tried  to  persuade  them  to  buy 
Strickland's?  He  Insisted  on  bringing  them  here  to 
show." 

"What  did  you  think  of  them?"  I  asked  her,  smil- 
ing. 


106  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

"They  were  awful." 

**Ah,  sweetheart,  you  don't  understand." 

"Well,  your  Dutch  people  were  furious  with  you. 
They  thought  you  were  having  a  joke  with  them." 

Dirk  Stroeve  took  off  his  spectacles  and  wiped 
them.    His  flushed  face  was  shining  with  excitement. 

"Why  should  you  think  that  beauty,  which  is  the 
most  precious  thing  In  the  world,  lies  like  a  stone  on 
the  beach  for  the  careless  passer-by  to  pick  up  Idly? 
Beauty  is  something  wonderful  and  strange  that  the 
artist  fashions  out  of  the  chaos  of  the  world  In  the 
torment  of  his  soul.  And  when  he  has  made  it,  it 
is  not  given  to  all  to  know  It.  To  recognize  it  you 
must  repeat  the  adventure  of  the  artist.  It  Is  a  mel- 
ody that  he  sings  to  you,  and  to  hear  It  again  In  your 
own  heart  you  want  knowledge  and  sensitiveness  and 
imagination." 

"Why  did  I  always  think  your  pictures  beautiful, 
Dirk?  I  admired  them  the  very  first  time  I  saw 
them." 

Stroeve's  lips  trembled  a  little. 

"Go  to  bed,  my  precious.  I  will  walk  a  few  steps 
with  our  friend,  and  then  I  will  come  back." 


Chapter  XX 

DIRK  STROEVE  agreed  to  fetch  me  on  the 
following  evening  and  take  me  to  the  cafe  at 
which  Strickland  was  most  likely  to  be  found. 
I  was  interested  to  learn  that  it  was  the  same  as  that 
at  which  Strickland  and  I  had  drunk  absinthe  when  I 
had  gone  over  to  Paris  to  see  him.  The  fact  that 
he  had  never  changed  suggested  a  sluggishness  of 
habit  which  seemed  to  me  characteristic. 

"There  he  Is,"  said  Stroeve,  as  we  reached  the  cafe. 

Though  It  was  October,  the  evening  was  warm,  and 
the  tables  on  the  pavement  were  crowded.  I  ran  my 
eyes  over  them,  but  did  not  see  Strickland. 

"Look.  Over  there,  In  the  corner.  He's  playing 
chess." 

I  noticed  a  man  bending  over  a  chess-board,  but 
could  see  only  a  large  felt  hat  and  a  red  beard.  We 
threaded  our  way  among  the  tables  till  we  came  to 
him. 

"Strickland." 

He  looked  up. 

"Hulloa,  fatty.    What  do  you  want  ?" 

"I've  brought  an  old  friend  to  see  you." 

Strickland  gave  me  a  glance,  and  evidently  did  not 
recognise  me.  He  resumed  his  scrutiny  of  the  chess- 
board. 

"Sit  down,  and  don't  make  a  noise,"  he  said. 

He  moved  a  piece  and  straightway  became  ab- 
sorbed in  the  game.    Poor  Stroeve  gave  me  a  troubled 

107 


108  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

look,  but  I  was  not  disconcerted  by  so  little.  I  or- 
dered something  to  drink,  and  waited  quietly  till 
Strickland  had  finished.  I  welcomed  the  opportunity 
to  examine  him  at  my  ease.  I  certainly  should  never 
have  known  him.  In  the  first  place  his  red  beard, 
ragged  and  untrimmed,  hid  much  of  his  face,  and  his 
hair  was  long;  but  the  most  surprising  change  In  him 
was  his  extreme  thinness.  It  made  his  great  nose  pro- 
trude more  arrogantly;  It  emphasized  his  cheek- 
bones; It  made  his  eyes  seem  larger.  There  were 
deep  hollows  at  his  temples.  His  body  was  cadaver- 
ous. He  wore  the  same  suit  that  I  had  seen  him  In 
five  years  before;  It  was  torn  and  stained,  threadbare, 
and  It  hung  upon  him  loosely,  as  though  it  had  been 
made  for  someone  else.  I  noticed  his  hands,  dirty, 
with  long  nails;  they  were  merely  bone  and  sinew, 
large  and  strong;  but  I  had  forgotten  that  they  were 
so  shapely.  He  gave  me  an  extraordinary  Impression 
as  he  sat  there,  his  attention  riveted  on  his  game — an 
Impression  of  great  strength;  and  I  could  not  under- 
stand why  It  was  that  his  emaciation  somehow  made 
it  more  striking. 

Presently,  after  moving,  he  leaned  back  and  gazed 
with  a  curious  abstraction  at  his  antagonist.  This 
was  a  fat,  bearded  Frenchman.  The  Frenchman 
considered  the  position,  then  broke  suddenly  into 
jovial  expletives,  and  with  an  impatient  gesture,  gath- 
ering up  the  pieces,  flung  them  Into  their  box.  He 
cursed  Strickland  freely,  then,  calling  for  the  waiter, 
paid  for  the  drinks,  and  left.  Stroeve  drew  his  chair 
closer  to  the  table. 

"Now  I  suppose  we  can  talk,"  he  said. 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  109 

Strickland's  eyes  rested  on  him,  and  there  was  in 
them  a  malicious  expression.  I  felt  sure  he  was  seek- 
ing for  some  gibe,  could  think  of  none,  and  so  was 
forced  to  silence. 

"I've  brought  an  old  friend  to  see  you,'^  repeated 
Stroeve,  beaming  cheerfully. 

Strickland  looked  at  me  thoughtfully  for  nearly  a 
minute.    I  did  not  speak. 

"I've  never  seen  him  in  my  life,"  he  said. 

I  do  not  know  why  he  said  this,  for  I  felt  certain  I 
had  caught  a  gleam  of  recognition  in  his  eyes.  I  was 
not  so  easily  abashed  as  I  had  been  some  years  earlier. 

"I  saw  your  wife  the  other  day,"  I  said.  "I  felt 
sure  you'd  like  to  have  the  latest  news  of  her." 

He  gave  a  short  laugh.    His  eyes  twinkled. 

"We  had  a  jolly  evening  together,"  he  said.  "How 
long  ago  is  it?" 

"Five  years." 

He  called  for  another  absinthe.  Stroeve,  with  vol- 
uble tongue,  explained  how  he  and  I  had  met,  and  by 
what  an  accident  we  discovered  that  we  both  knew 
Strickland.  I  do  not  know  if  Strickland  listened.  He 
glanced  at  me  once  or  twice  reflectively,  but  for  the 
most  part  seemed  occupied  with  his  own  thoughts; 
and  certainly  without  Stroeve's  babble  the  conver- 
sation would  have  been  difficult.  In  half  an  hour  the 
Dutchman,  looking  at  his  watch,  announced  that  he 
must  go.  He  asked  whether  I  would  come  too.  I 
thought,  alone,  I  might  get  something  out  of  Strick- 
land, and  so  answered  that  I  would  stay. 

When  the  fat  man  had  left  I  said : 

"Dirk  Stroeve  thinks  you're  a  great  artist.** 


110  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

"What  the  hell  do  you  suppose  I  care?" 

"Will  you  let  me  see  your  pictures?" 

"Why  should  I?" 

"I  might  feel  inclined  to  buy  one." 

"I  might  not  feel  inclined  to  sell  one." 

"Are  you  making  a  good  living?"  I  asked,  smiling. 

He  chuckled. 

"Do  I  look  it?" 

"You  look  half  starved." 

"I  am  half  starved." 

"Then  come  and  let's  have  a  bit  of  dinner." 

"Why  do  you  ask  me  ?" 

**Not  out  of  charity,"  I  answered  coolly.  "I  don't 
really  care  a  twopenny  damn  if  you  starve  or  not." 

His  eyes  lit  up  again. 

"Come  on,  then,"  he  said,  getting  up.  "I'd  like 
a  decent  meal." 


Chapter  XXI 

I     LET  him  take  me  to  a  restaurant  of  his  choice, 
but  on  the  way  I  bought  a  paper.    When  we  had 
ordered  our  dinner,  I  propped  it  against  a  bottle 
of  St.  Galmier  and  began  to  read.    We  ate  in  silence. 
I  felt  him  looking  at  me  now  and  again,  but  I  took 
no  notice.     I  meant  to  force  him  to  conversation. 

"Is  there  anything  in  the  paper?"  he  said,  as 
we  approached  the  end  of  our  silent  meal. 

I  fancied  there  was  in  his  tone  a  slight  note  of 
exasperation. 

"I  always  like  to  read  the  feuilleton  on  the  drama," 
I  said. 

I  folded  the  paper  and  put  it  down  beside  me. 

"I've  enjoyed  my  dinner,"  he  remarked. 

"I  think  we  might  have  our  coffee  here,  don't 
you?" 

"Yes." 

We  lit  our  cigars.  I  smoked  In  silence.  I  noticed 
that  now  and  then  his  eyes  rested  on  me  with  a  faint 
smile  of  amusement.  I  waited  patiently. 

"What  have  you  been  up  to  since  I  saw  you  last?" 
he  asked  at  length. 

I  had  not  very  much  to  say.  It  was  a  record  of 
hard  work  and  of  little  adventure;  of  experiments 
in  this  direction  and  In  that;  of  the  gradual  acquisition 
of  the  knowledge  of  books  and  of  men.  I  took  care 
to  ask  Strickland  nothing  about  his  own  doings.  I 
showed  not  the  least  interest  in  him,  and  at  last  I  was 

111 


112  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

rewarded.  He  began  to  talk  of  himself.  But  with 
his  poor  gift  of  expression  he  gave  but  indications 
of  what  he  had  gone  through,  and  I  had  to  fill  up^ 
the  gaps  with  my  own  imagination.  It  was  tanta- 
lising to  get  no  more  than  hints  into  a  character  that 
interested  me  so  much.  It  was  like  making  one's  way; 
through  a  mutilated  manuscript.  I  received  the  im- 
pression of  a  life  which  was  a  bitter  struggle  against 
every  sort  of  difficulty;  but  I  realised  that  much  which 
would  have  seemed  horrible  to  most  people  did  not 
in  the  least  affect  him.  Strickland  was  distinguished 
from  most  Englishmen  by  his  perfect  indifference 
to  comfort;  it  did  not  irk  him  to  live  always  in  one 
shabby  room;  he  had  no  need  to  be  surrounded  by 
beautiful  things.  I  do  not  suppose  he  had  ever  no- 
ticed how  dingy  was  the  paper  on  the  wall  of  the 
room  In  which  on  my  first  visit  I  found  him.  He  did 
not  want  arm-chairs  to  sit  in;  he  really  felt  more  at 
his  ease  on  a  kitchen  chair.  He  ate  with  appetite, 
but  was  indifferent  to  what  he  ate ;  to  him  It  was  only 
food  that  he  devoured  to  still  the  pangs  of  hunger; 
and  when  no  food  was  to  be  had  he  seemed  capable 
of  doing  without.  I  learned  that  for  six  months  he 
had  lived  on  a  loaf  of  bread  and  a  bottle  of  milk  a 
day.  He  was  a  sensual  man,  and  yet  was  indifferent 
to  sensual  things.  He  looked  upon  privation  as  no 
hardship.  There  was  something  impressive  in  the 
manner  in  which  he  lived  a  life  wholly  of  the  spirit. 
When  the  small  sum  of  money  which  he  brougHt 
with  him  from  London  came  to  an  end  he  suffered 
[from  no  dismay.  He  sold  no  pictures;  I  think  he 
made  little  attempt  to  sell  any;  he  set  about  finding 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  113 

some  way  to  make  a  bit  of  money.  He  told  me  witK 
grim  humour  of  the  time  he  had  spent  acting  as  guide 
to  Cockneys  who  wanted  to  see  the  night  side  of  life 
in  Paris;  it  was  an  occupation  that  appealed  to  his 
sardonic  temper  and  somehow  or  other  he  had  ac- 
quired a  wide  acquaintance  with  the  more  disrep- 
utable quarters  of  the  city.  He  told  me  of  the  long 
hours  he  spent  walking  about  the  Boulevard  de  la 
Madeleine  on  the  look-out  for  Englishmen,  prefer- 
ably the  worse  for  liquor,  who  desired  to  see  things 
which  the  law  forbade.  When  in  luck  he  was  able 
to  make  a  tidy  sum;  but  the  shabbiness  of  his  clothes 
at  last  frightened  the  sight-seers,  and  he  could  not 
find  people  adventurous  enough  to  trust  themselves 
to  him.  Then  he  happened  on  a  job  to  translate  the 
advertisements  of  patent  medicines  which  were  sent 
broadcast  to  the  medical  profession  in  England.  Dur- 
ing a  strike  he  had  been  employed  as  a  house-painter. 
Meanwhile  he  had  never  ceased  to  work  at  his  art; 
but  had  soon  tiring  of  the  studios,  entirely  by  him- 
self. He  had  never  been  so  poor  that  he  could  not 
buy  canvas  and  paint,  and  really  he  needed  nothing 
else.  So  far  as  I  could  make  out,  he  painted  with 
great  difficulty,  and  in  his  unwillingness  to  accept 
help  from  anyone  lost  much  time  in  finding  out  for 
himself  the  solution  of  technical  problems  which  pre- 
ceding generations  had  already  worked  out  one  by 
one.  He  was  aiming  at  something,  I  knew  not  what, 
and  perhaps  he  hardly  knew  himself;  and  I  got  again 
more  strongly  the  impression  of  a  man  possessed. 
He  did  not  seem  quite  sane.  It  seemed  to  me  that 
he  would  not  show  his  pictures  because  he  was  really 


114  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

not  interested  in  them.  He  lived  in  a  dream,  and 
the  reality  meant  nothing  to  him.  I  had  the  feeling 
that  he  worked  on  a  canvas  with  all  the  force  of  his 
violent  personality,  oblivious  of  everything  in  his  ef- 
fort to  get  what  he  saw  with  the  mind's  eye;  and 
then,  having  finished,  not  the  picture  perhaps,  for  I 
had  an  idea  that  he  seldom  brought  anything  to  com- 
pletion, but  the  passion  that  fired  him,  he  lost  all  care 
for  it.  He  was  never  satisfied  with  what  he  had  done ; 
it  seemed  to  him  of  no  consequence  compared  with 
the  vision  that  obsessed  his  mind. 

**Why  don't  you  ever  send  your  work  to  exhibi- 
tions?" I  asked.  "I  should  have  thought  you'd  like 
to  know  what  people  thought  about  it." 

*'WouId  you?" 

I  cannot  describe  the  unmeasurable  contempt  he  put 
Into  the  two  words. 

"Don't  you  want  fame?  It's  something  that  most 
artists  haven't  been  indifferent  to." 

"Children.  How  can  you  care  for  the  opinion  of 
the  crowd,  when  you  don't  care  twopence  for  the 
opinion  of  the  individual?" 

"We're  not  all  reasonable  beings,"  I  laughed. 

"Who  makes  fame  ?  Critics,  writers,  stockbrokers, 
svomen." 

"Wouldn't  it  give  you  a  rather  pleasing  sensation 
to  think  of  people  you  didn't  know  and  had  never  seen 
receiving  emotions,  subtle  and  passionate,  from  the 
work  of  your  hands?  Everyone  likes  power.  I  can't 
imagine  a  more  wonderful  exercise  of  it  than  to  mov^ 
the  souls  of  men  to  pity  or  terror." 

"Melodrama." 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  115 

"Why  do  you  mind  if  you  paint  well  or 
badly?" 

"I  don't.     I  only  want  to  paint  what  I  see." 

"I  wonder  if  I  could  write  on  a  desert  island,  with 
the  certainty  that  no  eyes  but  mine  would  ever  see 
what  I  had  written." 

Strickland  did  not  speak  for  a  long  time,  but  his 
eyes  shone  strangely,  as  though  he  saw  something 
that  kindled  his  soul  to  ecstasy. 

"Sometimes  I've  thought  of  an  Island  lost  in  a 
boundless  sea,  where  I  could  live  in  some  hidden  val- 
ley, among  strange  trees,  in  silence.  There  I  think 
I  could  find  what  I  want." 

He  did  not  express  himself  quite  like  this.  He 
Used  gestures  instead  of  adjectives,  and  he  halted. 
1  have  put  into  my  own  words  what  I  think  he  wanted 
to  say. 

"Looking  back  on  the  last  five  years,  do  you  think 
it  was  worth  it?"  I  asked. 

He  looked  at  me,  and  I  saw  that  he  did  not  know 
what  I  meant.    I  explained. 

"You  gave  up  a  comfortable  home  and  a  life  as 
happy  as  the  average.  You  were  fairly  prosperous. 
You  seem  to  have  had  a  rotten  time  in  Paris.  If  you 
had  your  time  over  again  would  you  do  what  you 
did?" 

"Rather." 

"Do  you  know  that  you  Haven't  asked  anything 
about  your  wife  and  children?  Do  you  never  think 
of  them?" 

"No." 

"I  wish  you  weren't    so    damned  monosyllabic. 


116  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

Have  you  never  had  a  moment's  regret  for  all  the 
unhappiness  you  caused  them?" 

His  lips  broke  into  a  smile,  and  he  shook  his  head. 

"I  should  have  thought  sometimes  you  couldn't 
help  thinking  of  the  past.  I  don't  mean  the  past  of 
seven  or  eight  years  ago,  but  further  back  still,  when 
you  first  met  your  wife,  and  loved  her,  and  married 
her.  Don't  you  remember  the  joy  with  which  you 
first  took  her  in  your  arms?" 

"I  don't  think  of  the  past.  The  only  thing  that 
matters  is  the  everlasting  present." 

I  thought  for  a  moment  over  this  reply.  It  was 
obscure,  perhaps,  but  I  thought  that  I  saw  dimly  his 
meaning. 

"Are  you  happy?"  I  asked. 

"Yes." 

I  was  silent.  I  looked  at  him  reflectively.  He  held 
my  stare,  and  presently  a  sardonic  twinkle  lit  up  his 
eyes. 

"I'm  afraid  you  disapprove  of  me?" 

"Nonsense,"  I  answered  promptly;  "I  don't  dis- 
approve of  the  boa-constrictor;  on  the  contrary,  I'm 
interested  in  his  mental  processes." 

"It's  a  purely  professional  interest  you  take  in 
me?" 

"Purely." 

"It's  only  right  that  you  shouldn't  disapprove  of 
me.    You  have  a  despicable  character." 

"Perhaps  that's  why  you  feel  at  home  with  me,'* 
I  retorted. 

He  smiled  dryly,  but  said  nothing.  I  wish  I  knew 
how  to  describe  his  smile.     I  do  not  know  that  it 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  117 

was  attractive,  but  it  lit  up  his  face,  changing  the  ex- 
pression, which  was  generally  sombre,  and  gave  it  a 
look  of  not  ill-natured  malice.  It  was  a  slow  smile, 
starting  and  sometimes  ending  in  the  eyes;  it  was 
very  sensual,  neither  cruel  nor  kindly,  but  suggested 
rather  the  inhuman  glee  of  the  satyr.  It  was  his 
smile  that  made  me  ask  him : 

"Haven't  you  been  in  love  since  you  came  to 
Paris?" 

"I  haven't  got  time  for  that  sort  of  nonsense.  Life 
isn't  long  enough  for  love  and  art." 

"Your  appearance  doesn't  suggest  the  anchorite.'* 

*'A11  that  business  fills  me  with  disgust." 

"Human  nature  is  a  nuisance,  isn't  it?"  I  said. 

"Why  are  you  sniggering  at  me?" 

"Because  I  don''t  believe  you." 

"Then  you're  a  damned  fool." 

I  paused,  and  I  looked  at  him  searchingly. 

"What's  the  good  of  trying  to  humbug  me?"  I 
said. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean." 

I  smiled. 

"Let  me  tell  you.  I  imagine  that  for  months  the 
matter  never  comes  into  your  head,  and  you're  able 
to  persuade  yourself  that  you've  finished  with  it  for 
good  and  all.  You  rejoice  in  your  freedom,  and  you 
feel  that  at  last  you  can  call  your  soul  your  own. 
You  seem  to  walk  with  your  head  among  the  stars. 
And  then,  all  of  a  sudden  you  can't  stand  it  any  more, 
and  you  notice  that  all  the  time  your  feet  have  been 
walking  in  the  mud.  And  you  want  to  roll  yourself 
in  it.    And  you  find  some  woman,  coarse  and  low  and 


118  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

vulgar,  some  beastly  creature  in  whom  all  the  horror 
of  sex  is  blatant,  and  you  fall  upon  her  like  a  wild 
animal.    You  drink  till  you're  blind  with  rage." 

He  stared  at  me  without  the  slightest  movement. 
I  held  his  eyes  with  mine.     I  spoke  very  slowly. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  must  seem  strange,  that  when 
it's  over  you  feel  so  extraordinarily  pure.  You  feel 
like  a  disembodied  spirit,  immaterial;  and  you  s^em 
to  be  able  to  touch  beauty  as  though  It  were  a  palpable 
thing;  and  you  feel  an  intimate  communion  with  the 
breeze,  and  with  the  trees  breaking  Into  leaf,  and 
with  the  iridescence  of  the  river.  You  feel  like  God. 
Can  you  explain  that  to  me?" 

He  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  mine  till  I  had  finished, 
and  then  he  turned  away.  There  was  on  his  face  a 
strange  look,  and  I  thought  that  so  might  a  man 
look  when  he  had  died  under  the  torture.  He  was 
silent.     I  knew  that  our  conversation  was  ended. 


Chapter  XXII 

I  SETTLED  down  in  Paris  and  began  to  write 
a  play.  I  led  a  very  regular  life,  working  in 
the  morning,  and  in  the  afternoon  lounging 
about  the  gardens  of  the  Luxembourg  or  sauntering 
through  the  streets.  I  spent  long  hours  in  the  Louvre, 
the  most  friendly  of  all  galleries  and  the  most  con- 
venient for  meditation ;  or  idled  on  the  quays,  finger- 
ing second-hand  books  that  I  never  meant  to  buy. 
I  read  a  page  here  and  there,  and  made  acquaintance 
with  a  great  many  authors  whom  I  was  content  to 
know  thus  desultorily.  In  the  evenings  I  went  to  see 
my  friends.  I  looked  in  often  on  the  Stroeves,  and 
sometimes  shared  their  modest  fare.  Dirk  Stroeve 
flattered  himself  on  his  skill  in  cooking  Italian  dishes, 
and  I  confess  that  his  spaghetti  were  very  much  bet- 
ter than  his  pictures.  It  was  a  dinner  for  a  King 
when  he  brought  in  a  huge  dish  of  it,  succulent  with 
tomatoes,  and  we  ate  it  together  with  the  good  house- 
hold bread  and  a  bottle  of  red  wine.  I  grew  more  in- 
timate with  Blanche  Stroeve,  and  I  think,  because  I 
was  English  and  she  knew  few  English  people,  she 
was  glad  to  see  me.  She  was  pleasant  and  simple, 
but  she  remained  always  rather  silent,  and  I  knew 
not  why,  gave  me  the  impression  that  she  was  con- 
cealing something.  But  I  thought  that  was  perhaps 
no  more  than  a  natural  reserve  accentuated  by  the 
verbose  frankness  of  her  husband.  Dirk  never  con- 
cealed anything.     He  discussed  the  most  intimate 

119 


120  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

matters  with  a  complete  lack  of  self-conscIousness». 
Sometimes  he  embarrassed  his  wife,  and  the  only 
time  I  saw  her  put  out  of  countenance  was  when  he 
insisted  on  telling  me  that  he  had  taken  a  purge,  and 
went  into  somewhat  realistic  details  on  the  subject. 
The  perfect  seriousness  with  which  he  narrated  his 
misfortunes  convulsed  me  with  laughter,  and  this 
added  to  Mrs.  Stroeve's  irritation. 

"You  seem  to  like  making  a  fool  of  yourself,"  she 
said. 

His  round  eyes  grew  rounder  still,  and  his  brow 
puckered  in  dismay  as  he  saw  that  she  was  angry. 

"Sweetheart,  have  I  vexed  you?  I'll  never  take 
another.  It  was  only  because  I  was  bilious.  I  lead 
a  sedentary  life.  I  don't  take  enough  exercise.  For 
three  days  I  hadn't  .  .  ." 

"For  goodness  sake,  hold  your  tongue,"  she  in- 
terrupted, tears  of  annoyance  in  her  eyes. 

His  face  fell,  and  he  pouted  his  lips  like  a  scolded 
child.  He  gave  me  a  look  of  appeal,  so  that  I 
might  put  things  right,  but,  unable  to  control  myself, 
I  shook  with  helpless  laughter. 

We  went  one  day  to  the  picture-dealer  in  whose 
shop  Stroeve  thought  he  could  show  me  at  least  two 
or  three  of  Strickland's  pictures,  but  when  we  arrived 
were  told  that  Strickland  himself  had  taken  them 
away.    The  dealer  did  not  know  why. 

"But  don't  Imagine  to  yourself  that  I  make  myself 
bad  blood  on  that  account.  I  took  them  to  oblige 
Monsieur  Stroeve,  and  I  said  I  would  sell  them  if  I 

could.    But  really "    He  shrugged  his  shoulders, 

"I'm  interested  in  the  young  men,  but  voyons,  you 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  121 

yourself,  Monsieur  Stroeve,  you  don't  think  there's 
any  talent  there." 

"I  give  you  my  word  of  honour,  there's  no  one 
painting  to-day  in  whose  talent  I  am  more  convinced. 
Take  my  word  for  it,  you  are  missing  a  good  affair. 
Some  day  those  pictures  will  be  worth  more  than  all 
you  have  in  your  shop.  Remember  Monet,  who  could 
not  get  anyone  to  buy  his  pictures  for  a  hundred 
francs.    What  are  they  worth  now?" 

"True.  But  there  were  a  hundred  as  good  painters 
as  Monet  who  couldn't  sell  their  pictures  at  that  time, 
and  their  pictures  are  worth  nothing  still.  How  can 
one  tell?  Is  merit  enough  to  bring  success?  Don't 
believe  it.  Du  reste,  it  has  still  to  be  proved  that  this 
friend  of  yours  has  merit.  No  one  claims  it  for  him 
but  Monsieur  Stroeve." 

"And  how,  then,  will  you  recognise  merit?"  asked 
Dirk,  red  in  the  face  with  anger. 

"There  is  only  one  way — by  success." 

"Philistine,"  cried  Dirk. 

"But  think  of  the  great  artists  of  the  past — Ra- 
phael, Michael  Angelo,  Ingres,  Delacroix — they  were 
all  successful." 

"Let  us  go,"  said  Stroeve  to  me,  "or  I  shall  kill 
this  man." 


Chapter  XXIII 

I  SAW  Strickland  not  infrequently,  and  now  and 
then  played  chess  with  him.  He  was  of  uncer- 
tain temper.  Sometimes  he  would  sit  silent  and 
abstracted,  taking  no  notice  of  anyone ;  and  at  others, 
when  he  was  In  a  good  humour,  he  would  talk  In  his 
own  halting  way.  He  never  said  a  clever  thing,  but 
he  had  a  vein  of  brutal  sarcasm  which  was  not  in- 
effective, and  he  always  said  exactly  what  he  thought, 
IHe  was  indifferent  to  the  susceptibilities  of  others, 
and  when  he  wounded  them  was  amused.  He  was 
constantly  offending  Dirk  Stroeve  so  bitterly  that  he 
flung  away,  vowing  he  would  never  speak  to  him 
again;  but  there  was  a  solid  force  In  Strickland  that 
attracted  the  fat  Dutchman  against  his  will,  so  that 
he  came  back,  fawning  like  a  clumsy  dog,  though  he 
knew  that  his  only  greeting  would  be  the  blow  he 
dreaded. 

I  do  not  know  why  Strickland  put  up  with  me. 
Our  relations  were  peculiar.  One  day  he  asked  me 
%o  lend  him  fifty  francs. 

"I  wouldn't  dream  of  it,"  I  replied. 

*'Whynot?" 

*'It  wouldn't  amuse  me." 

"I'm  frightfully  hard  up,  you  know." 

"I  don't  care." 

"You  don't  care  if  I  starve?'* 

"Why  on  earth  should  I?"  I  asked  In  my  turn. 
122 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  123 

He  looked  at  me  for  a  minute  or  two,  pulling  his 
untidy  beard.    I  smiled  at  him. 

"What  are  you  amused  at?"  he  said,  with  a  gleam 
of  anger  in  his  eyes. 

"You're  so  simple.  You  recognise  no  obligations. 
No  one  is  under  any  obligation  to  you." 

"Wouldn't  it  make  you  uncomfortable  if  I  went 
and  hanged  myself  because  I'd  been  turned  out  of 
my  room  as  I  couldn't  pay  the  rent?" 

"Not  a  bit." 

He  chuckled. 

"You're  bragging.  If  I  really  did  you'd  be  over- 
whelmed with  remorse." 

"Try  it,  and  we'll  see,"  I  retorted. 

A  smile  flickered  in  his  eyes,  and  he  stirred  his 
absinthe  in  silence. 

"Would  you  like  to  play  chess?"  I  asked. 

"I  don't  mind." 

We  set  up  the  pieces,  and  when  the  board  was 
ready  he  considered  it  with  a  comfortable  eye.  There 
is  a  sense  of  satisfaction  in  looking  at  your  men  all 
ready  for  the  fray. 

"Did  you  really  think  I'd  lend  you  money?"  I 
asked. 

"I  didn't  see  why  you  shouldn't." 

"You  surprise  me." 

"Why?" 

"It's  disappointing  to  find  that  at  heart  you  are 
sentimental.  I  should  have  liked  you  better  if  you 
hadn't  made  that  ingenuous  appeal  to  my  sympathies." 

"I  should  have  despised  you  if  you'd  been  moved 
by  it,"  he  answered. 


124  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

"That's  better,"  I  laughed. 

We  began  to  play.  We  were  both  absorbed  in  the 
game.     When  it  was  finished  I  said  to  him: 

"Look  here,  if  you're  hard  up,  let  me  see  your  pic- 
tures.    If  there's  anything  I  like  I'll  buy  it." 

"Go  to  hell,"  he  answered. 

•He  got  up  and  was  about  to  go  away.  I  stopped 
him. 

"You  haven't  paid  for  your  absinthe,"  I  said,  smil- 
ing. 

He  cursed  me,  flung  down  the  money  and  left. 

I  did  not  see  him  for  several  days  after  that,  but 
one  evening,  when  I  was  sitting  in  the  cafe,  reading 
a  paper,  he  came  up  and  sat  beside  me. 

"You  haven't  hanged  yourself  after  all,"  I  re- 
marked. 

"No.  I've  got  a  commission.  I'm  painting  the 
portrait  of  a  retired  plumber  for  two  hundred 
francs."* 

"How  did  you  manage  that?" 

"The  woman  where  I  get  my  bread  recommended 
me.  He'd  told  her  he  was  looking  out  for  someone 
to  paint  him.    I've  got  to  give  her  twenty  francs." 

^'What'shelike?" 

"Splendid.  He's  got  a  great  red  face  like  a  leg 
of  mutton,  and  on  his  right  cheek  there's  an  enormous 
mole  with  long  hairs  growing  out  of  it." 

Strickland  was  In  a  good  humour,  and  when  Dirk 

*  This  picture,  formerly  in  the  possession  of  a  wealthy 
manufacturer  at  Lille,  who  fled  from  that  city  on  the  ap- 
proach of  the  Germans,  is  now  in  the  National  Gallery  at 
Stockholm.  The  Swede  is  adept  at  the  gentle  pastime  of 
fishing  in  troubled  water* 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  125 

Stroeve  came  up  and  sat  down  with  us  he  attacked  him 
with  ferocious  banter.  He  showed  a  skill  I  should 
never  have  credited  him  with  in  finding  the  places 
where  the  unhappy  Dutchman  was  most  sensitive. 
Strickland  employed  not  the  rapier  of  sarcasm  but 
the  bludgeon  of  Invective.  The  attack  was  so  un- 
provoked that  Stroeve,  taken  unawares,  was  defence- 
less. He  reminded  you  of  a  frightened  sheep  running 
aimlessly  hither  and  thither.  He  was  startled  and 
amazed.  At  last  the  tears  ran  from  his  eyes.  And 
the  worst  of  it  was  that,  though  you  hated  Strickland, 
and  the  exhibition  was  horrible,  It  was  impossible 
not  to  laugh.  Dirk  Stroeve  was  one  of  those  un- 
lucky persons  whose  most  sincere  emotions  are  ridicu- 
lous. 

But  after  all  when  I  look  back  upon  that  winter  in 
Paris,  my  pleasantest  recollection  is  of  Dirk  Stroeve. 
There  was  something  very  charming  In  his  little 
household.  He  and  his  wife  made  a  picture  which 
the  Imagination  gratefully  dwelt  upon,  and  the  sim- 
plicity of  his  love  for  her  had  a  deliberate  grace.  He 
remained  absurd,  but  the  sincerity  of  his  passion  ex- 
cited one's  sympathy.  I  could  understand  how  his 
wife  must  feel  for  him,  and  I  was  glad  that  her  af- 
fection was  so  tender.  If  she  had  any  sense  of 
humour.  It  must  amuse  her  that  he  should  place  her 
on  a  pedestal  and  worship  her  with  such  an  honest 
Idolatry,  but  even  while  she  laughed  she  must  have 
been  pleased  and  touched.  He  was  the  constant 
lover,  and  though  she  grew  old,  losing  her  rounded 
lines  and  her  fair  comeliness,  to  him  she  would  cer- 
tainly never  alter.    To  him  she  v/ould  always  be  the 


126  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

loveliest  woman  in  the  world.  There  was  a  pleasing 
grace  in  the  orderliness  of  their  lives.  They  had  but 
the  studio,  a  bedroom,  and  a  tiny  kitchen.  Mrs\ 
Stroeve  did  all  the  housework  herself;  and  while  Dirk 
painted  bad  pictures,  she  went  marketing,  cooked  the 
luncheon,  sewed,  occupied  herself  like  a  busy  ant  all 
the  day;  and  in  the  evening  sat  in  the  studio,  sewing 
again,  while  Dirk  played  music  which  I  am  sure  was 
far  beyond  her  comprehension.  He  played  with  taste, 
but  with  more  feeling  than  was  always  justified,  and 
into  his  music  poured  all  his  honest,  sentimental,  ex- 
uberant soul. 

Their  life  in  its  own  way  was  an  Idyl,  and  it  man- 
aged to  achieve  a  singular  beauty.  The  absurdity  that 
clung  to  everything  connected  with  Dirk  Stroeve  gave 
it  a  curious  note,  like  an  unresolved  discord,  but  made 
it  somehow  more  modern,  more  human;  like  a  rough 
joke  thrown  into  a  serious  scene,  it  heightened  the 
poignancy  which  all  beawty  has. 


Chapter  XXIV 

SHORTLY  before  Christmas  Dirk  Stroeve  came 
to  ask  me  to  spend  the  holiday  with  him.  He 
had  a  characteristic  sentimentality  about  the 
day  and  wanted  to  pass  it  among  his  friends  with  suit- 
able ceremonies.  Neither  of  us  had  seen  Strickland 
for  two  or  three  weeks — I  because  I  had  been  busy 
with  friends  who  were  spending  a  little  while  In  Paris, 
and  Stroeve  because,  having  quarreled  with  him  more 
violently  than  usual,  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to 
have  nothing  more  to  do  with  him.  Strickland  was 
impossible,  and  he  swore  never  to  speak  to  him  again. 
But  the  season  touched  him  with  gentle  feeling,  and 
he  hated  the  thought  of  Strickland  spending  Christ- 
mas Day  by  himself;  he  ascribed  his  own  emotions  to 
him,  and  could  not  bear  that  on  an  occasion  given  up 
to  good-fellowship  the  lonely  painter  should  be  aban- 
doned to  his  own  melancholy.  Stroeve  had  set  up  a 
Christmas-tree  in  his  studio,  and  I  suspected  that  we 
should  both  find  absurd  little  presents  hanging  on  Its 
festive  branches;  but  he  was  shy  about  seeing  Strick- 
land again;  it  was  a  little  humiliating  to  forgive  so 
easily  insults  so  outrageous,  and  he  wished  me  to  be 
present  at  the  reconciliation  on  which  he  was  de- 
termined. 

We  walked  together  down  the  Avenue  de  Cllchy, 
but  Strickland  was  not  In  the  cafe.  It  was  too  cold  to 
sit  outside,  and  we  took  our  places  on  leather  benches 
within.     It  was  hot  and  stuffy,  and  the  air  was  gray 

127 


128  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

with  smoke.  Strickland  did  not  come,  but  presently 
we  saw  the  French  painter  who  occasionally  played 
chess  with  him.  I  had  formed  a  casual  acquaintance 
with  him,  and  he  sat  down  at  our  table.  Stroeve 
asked  him  if  he  had  seen  Strickland. 

"He's  ill,"  he  said.    "Didn't  you  know?" 

"Seriously?" 

"Very,  I  understand." 

Stroeve's  face  grew  white. 

"Why  didn't  he  write  and  tell  me?  How  stupid 
of  me  to  quarrel  with  him  We  must  go  to  him  at 
once.  He  can  have  no  one  to  look  after  him.  Where 
does  he  live?" 

"I  have  no  idea,"  said  the  Frenchman. 

We  discovered  that  none  of  us  knew  how  to  find 
him.     Stroeve  grew  more  and  more  distressed. 

"He  might  die,  and  not  a  soul  would  know  any- 
thing about  it.  It's  dreadful.  I  can't  bear  the 
thought.    We  must  find  him  at  once." 

I  tried  to  make  Stroeve  understand  that  it  was  ab- 
surd to  hunt  vaguely  about  Paris.  We  must  first 
think  of  some  plan. 

"Yes;  but  all  this  time  he  may  be  dying,  and  when 
we  get  there  It  may  be  too  late  to  do  anything." 

"Sit  still  and  let  us  think,"  I  said  impatiently. 

The  only  address  I  knew  was  the  Hotel  des  Beiges, 
but  Strickland  had  long  left  that,  and  they  would 
have  no  recollection  of  him.  With  that  queer  idea  of 
his  to  keep  his  whereabouts  secret,  it  was  unlikely 
that,  on  leaving,  he  had  said  where  he  was  going. 
Besides,  it  was  more  than  five  years  ago.  I  felt  pretty 
sure  that  he  had  not  moved  far.    If  he  continued  to 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  129 

frequent  the  same  cafe  as  when  he  had  stayed  at  the 
hotel,  it  was  probably  because  it  was  the  most  con- 
venient. Suddenly  I  remembered  that  he  had  got  his 
commission  to  paint  a  portrait  through  the  baker 
from  whom  he  bought  his  bread,  and  it  struck  me 
that  there  one  might  find  his  address.  I  called  for 
a  directory  and  looked  out  the  bakers.  There  were 
five  in  the  immediate  neighbourhood,  and  the  only 
thing  was  to  go  to  all  of  them.  Stroeve  accompanied 
me  unwillingly.  His  own  plan  was  to  run  up  and 
down  the  streets  that  led  out  of  the  Avenue  de  Clichy 
and  ask  at  every  house  if  Strickland  lived  there.  My 
commonplace  scheme  was,  after  all,  effective,  for  in 
the  second  shop  we  asked  at  the  woman  behind  the 
counter  acknowledged  that  she  knew  him.  She  was 
not  certain  where  he  lived,  but  it  was  In  one  of  the 
three  houses  opposite.  Luck  favoured  us,  and  in  the 
first  we  tried  the  concierge  told  us  that  we  should  find 
him  on  the  top  floor. 

"It  appears  that  he's  ill,"  said  Stroeve. 

"It  may  be,"  answered  the  concierge  indifferently. 
"En  efet,  I  have  not  seen  him  for  several  days." 

Stroeve  ran  up  the  stairs  ahead  of  me,  and  when  I 
reached  the  top  floor  I  found  him  talking  to  a  work- 
man In  his  shirt-sleeves  who  had  opened  a  door  at 
which  Stroeve  had  knocked.  He  pointed  to  another 
door.  He  believed  that  the  person  who  lived  there 
was  a  painter.  He  had  not  seen  him  for  a  week. 
Stroeve  made  as  though  he  were  about  to  knock,  and 
then  turned  to  me  with  a  gesture  of  helplessness.  I 
saw  that  he  was  panic-stricken. 

"Supposing  he's  dead?'' 


ISO  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

"Not  he,"  I  said. 

I  knocked.  There  was  no  answer.  I  tried  the 
handle,  and  found  the  door  unlocked.  I  walked  in, 
and  Stroeve  followed  me.  The  room  was  in  dark- 
ness. I  could  only  see  that  it  was  an  attic,  with  a 
sloping  roof;  and  a  faint  glimmer,  no  more  than  a 
less  profound  obscurity,  came  from  a  skylight. 

"Strickland,"  I  called. 

There  was  no  answer.  It  was  really  rather  myste- 
rious, and  it  seemed  to  me  that  Stroeve,  standing  just 
behind,  was  trembling  in  his  shoes.  For  a  moment 
I  hesitated  to  strike  a  light.  I  dimly  perceived  a  bed 
in  the  corner,  and  I  wondered  whether  the  light 
would  disclose  lying  on  it  a  dead  body. 

"Haven't  you  got  a  match,  you  fool?" 

Strickland's  voice,  coming  out  of  the  darkness, 
harshly,  made  me  start. 

Stroeve  cried  out. 

"Oh,  my  God,  I  thought  you  were  dead." 

I  struck  a  match,  and  looked  about  for  a  candle.  I 
had  a  rapid  glimpse  of  a  tiny  apartment,  half  room, 
half  studio,  in  which  was  nothing  but  a  bed,  canvases 
with  their  faces  to  the  wall,  an  easel,  a  table,  and  a 
chair.  There  was  no  carpet  on  the  floor.  There  was 
no  fire-place.  On  the  table,  crowded  with  paints, 
palette-knives,  and  litter  of  all  kinds,  was  the  end  of 
a  candle.  I  lit  It.  Strickland  was  lying  in  the  bed, 
uncomfortably  because  it  was  too  small  for  him,  and 
he  had  put  all  his  clothes  over  him  for  warmth.  It 
was  obvious  at  a  glance  that  he  was  in  a  high  fever. 
Stroeve,  his  voice  cracking  with  emotion,  went  up  to 
him. 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  131 

"Oh,  my  poor  friend,  what  is  the  matter  with 
you?  I  had  no  idea  you  were  ill.  Why  didn't  you 
let  me  know?  You  must  know  I'd  have  done  any- 
thing in  the  world  for  you.  Were  you  thinking  of 
what  I  said?  I  didn't  mean  it.  I  was  wrong.  It 
was  stupid  of  me  to  take  offence." 

"Go  to  hell,"  said  Strickland. 

"Now,  be  reasonable.  Let  me  make  you  com- 
fortable. Haven't  you  anyone  to  look  after 
you?" 

He  looked  round  the  squalid  attic  in  dismay.  He 
tried  to  arrange  the  bed-clothes.  Strickland,  breath- 
ing  laboriously,  kept  an  angry  silence.  He  gave  me  a 
resentful  glance.  I  stood  quite  quietly,  looking  at 
him. 

"If  you  want  to  do  something  for  me,  you  can  get 
me  some  milk,"  he  said  at  last.  "I  haven't  been  able 
to  get  out  for  two  days." 

There  was  an  empty  bottle  by  the  side  of  the  bedv 
which  had  contained  milk,  and  in  a  piece  of  news- 
paper a  few  crumbs. 

"What  have  you  been  having?"  I  asked. 

"Nothing." 

"For  how  long?"  cried  Stroeve.  "Do  you  mean  to 
say  you've  had  nothing  to  eat  or  drink  for  two  days? 
It's  horrible." 

"I've  had  water." 

His  eyes  dwelt  for  a  moment  on  a  large  can  within 
reach  of  an  outstretched  arm. 

"I'll  go  immediately,"  said  Stroeve.  "Is  there 
anything  you  fancy?" 

I  suggested  that  he  should  get  a  thermometer,  and 


182  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

a  few  grapes,  and  some  bread.  Stroeve,  glad  to  make 
himself  useful,  clattered  down  the  stairs. 

"Damned  fool,"  muttered  Strickland. 

I  felt  his  pulse.  It  was  beating  quickly  and  feebly. 
I  asked  him  one  or  two  questions,  but  he  would  not 
answer,  and  when  I  pressed  him  he  turned  his  face 
Irritably  to  the  wall.  The  only  thing  was  to  wait  in 
silence.  In  ten  minutes  Stroeve,  panting,  came  back. 
Besides  what  I  had  suggested,  he  brought  candles,  and 
meat-juice,  and  a  spirit-lamp.  He  was  a  practical 
little  fellow,  and  without  delay  set  about  making 
bread-and-milk.  I  took  Strickland's  temperature.  It 
was  a  hundred  and  four.    He  was  obviously  very  ill. 


Chapter  XXV. 

PRESENTLY  we  left  him.  DIrIc  was  going 
home  to  dinner,  and  I  proposed  to  find  a  doc- 
tor and  bring  him  to  see  Strickland;  but  when 
we  got  down  into  the  street,  fresh  after  the  stuffy 
attic,  the  Dutchman  begged  me  to  go  Immediately  to 
his  studio.  He  had  something  In  mind  which  he 
would  not  tell  me,  but  he  insisted  that  it  was  very 
necessary  for  me  to  accompany  him.  Since  I  did  not 
think  a  doctor  could  at  the  moment  do  any  more  than 
we  had  done,  I  consented.  We  found  Blanche 
Stroeve  laying  the  table  for  dinner.  Dirk  went  up 
to  her,  and  took  both  her  hands. 

"Dear  one,  I  want  you  to  do  something  for  me,** 
he  said. 

She  looked  at  him  with  the  grave  cheerfulness 
which  was  one  of  her  charms.  His  red  face  was  shin- 
ing with  sweat,  and  he  had  a  look  of  comic  agitation, 
but  there  was  In  his  round,  surprised  eyes  an  eager 
light. 

"Strickland  Is  very  111.  He  may  be  dying.  He  is 
alone  In  a  filthy  attic,  and  there  is  not  a  soul  to  look 
after  him.    I  want  you  to  let  me  bring  him  here." 

She  withdrew  her  hands  quickly,  I  had  never  seen 
her  make  so  rapid  a  movement,'  and  her  cheeks 
flushed. 

"Oh  no." 

'"Oh,  my  dear  one,  don't  refuse.  I  couldn't  bear  to 
133 


1S4  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

leave  him  where  he  is.  I  shouldn't  sleep  a  wink  for 
thinking  of  him." 

"I  have  no  objection  to  your  nursing  him." 

Her  voice  was  cold  and  distant. 

*'But  he'll  die." 

"Let  him." 

Stroeve  gave  a  little  gasp.  He  wiped  his  face.  He 
turned  to  me  for  support,  but  I  did  not  know  what  to 
say. 

"He's  a  great  artist." 

"What  do  I  care  ?    I  hate  him." 

"Oh,  my  love,  my  precious,  you  don't  mean  that. 
I  beseech  you  to  let  me  bring  him  here.  We  can 
make  him  comfortable.  Perhaps  we  can  save  him. 
He  shall  be  no  trouble  to  you.  I  will  do  everything. 
We'll  make  him  up  a  bed  in  the  studio.  We  can't  let 
him  die  like  a  dog.    It  would  be  inhuman." 

"Why  can't  he  go  to  a  hospital?" 

"A  hospital !  He  needs  the  care  of  loving  hands. 
He  must  be  treated  with  infinite  tact." 

I  was  surprised  to  see  how  moved  she  was.  She 
went  on  laying  the  table,  but  her  hands  trembled. 

'^I  have  no  patience  with  you.  Do  you  think  if  you 
were  ill  he  would  stir  a  finger  to  help  you  ?" 

"But  what  does  that  matter?  I  should  have  you 
to  nurse  me.  It  wouldn't  be  necessary.  And  besides, 
I'm  different;  I'm  not  of  any  importance." 

"You  have  no  more  spirit  than  a  mongrel  cur. 
You  lie  down  on  the  ground  and  ask  people  to  tram- 
ple on  you." 

Stroeve  gave  a  little  laugh.  He  thought  he  under- 
stood the  reason  of  his  wife's  attitude. 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  135 

"Oh,  my  poor  dear,  you're  thinking  of  that  day  he 
came  here  to  look  at  my  pictures.  What  does  it  mat- 
ter if  he  didn't  think  them  any  good?  It  was  stupid 
of  me  to  show  them  to  him.  I  dare  say  they're  not 
very  good." 

He  looked  round  the  studio  ruefully.  On  the  easel 
was  a  half-finished  picture  of  a  smiling  Italian  peas- 
ant, holding  a  bunch  of  grapes  over  the  head  of  a 
dark-eyed  girl. 

"Even  if  he  didn't  like  them  he  should  have  been 
civil.  He  needn't  have  insulted  you.  He  showed 
that  he  despised  you,  and  you  lick  his  hand.  Oh,  I 
hate  him." 

"Dear  child,  he  has  genius.  You  don't  think  I 
believe  that  I  have  it.  I  wish  I  had;  but  I  know  it 
when  I  see  it,  and  I  honour  it  with  all  my  heart.  It's 
the  most  wonderful  thing  in  the  world.  It's  a  great 
burden  to  its  possessors.  We  should  be  very  tolerant 
with  them,  and  very  patient." 

I  stood  apart,  somewhat  embarrassed  by  the  do- 
mestic scene,  and  wondered  why  Stroeve  had  insisted 
on  my  coming  with  him.  I  saw  that  his  wife  was  on 
the  verge  of  tears. 

"But  it's  not  only  because  he's  a  genius  that  I  ask 
you  to  let  me  bring  him  here;  it's  because  he's  a 
human  being,  and  he  is  ill  and  poor.'* 

"I  will  never  have  him  in  my  house — never," 

Stroeve  turned  to  me. 

"Tell  her  that  it's  a  matter  of  life  and  death.  It's 
impossible  to  leave  him  in  that  wretched  hole." 

"It's  quite  obvious  that  it  would  be  much  easier  to 
nurse  him  here,"  I  said,  "but  of  course  it  would  ba 


188  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

very  inconvenient.  I  have  an  Idea  that  someone  will 
have  to  be  with  him  day  and  night." 

"My  love,  it's  not  you  who  would  shirk  a  little 
trouble." 

"If  he  comes  here,  I  shall  go,"  said  Mrs.  Stroeve 
violently. 

"I  don't  recognize  you.    You're  so  good  and  kind." 

"Oh,  for  goodness  sake,  let  me  be.  You  drive  me 
to  distraction." 

Then  at  last  the  tears  came.  She  sank  into  a  chair, 
and  buried  her  face  in  her  hands.  Her  shoulders 
shook  convulsively.  In  a  moment  Dirk  was  on  his 
knees  beside  her,  with  his  arms  round  her,  kissing  her, 
calling  her  all  sorts  of  pet  names,  and  the  facile  tears 
ran  down  his  own  cheeks.  Presently  she  released 
herself  and  dried  her  eyes. 

"Leave  me  alone,"  she  said,  not  unkindly;  and  then 
to  me,  trying  to  smile:  "What  must  you  think  of 
me?" 

Stroeve,  looking  at  Ker  with  perplexity,  hesitated. 
His  forehead  was  all  puckered,  and  his  red  mouth  set 
in  a  pout.  He  reminded  me  oddly  of  an  agitated 
guinea-pig. 

"Then  it's  No,  darling?"  he  said  at  last. 

She  gave  a  gesture  of  lassitude.  She  was  ex- 
hausted. 

"The  studio  is  yours.  Everything  belongs  to  you. 
If  you  want  to  bring  him  here,  how  can  I  prevent 
you?" 

A  sudden  smile  flashed  across  his  round  face. 

"Then  you  consent?  I  knew  you  would.  Oh,  my 
precious." 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  137 

Suddenly  she  pulled  herself  together.  She  looked 
at  him  with  haggard  eyes.  She  clasped  her  hands 
over  her  heart  as  though  its  beating  were  intolerable. 

"Oh,  Dirk,  I've  never  since  we  met  asked  you  to 
3o  anything  for  me." 

"You  know  there's  nothing  in  the  world  that  I 
wouldn't  do  for  you." 

"I  beg  you  not  to  let  Strickland  come  here.  Any. 
one  else  you  like.  Bring  a  thief,  a  drunkard,  any 
outcast  off  the  streets,  and  I  promise  you  I'll  do 
everything  I  can  for  them  gladly.  But  I  beseech  you 
not  to  bring  Strickland  here." 

"But  why?" 

"I'm  frightened  of  him.  I  don't  know  why,  but 
there's  something  in  him  that  terrifies  me.  He'll  do 
us  some  great  harm.  I  know  it  I  feel  it.  If  you 
bring  him  here  it  can  only  end  badly." 

"But  how  unreasonable !" 

"No,  no.  I  know  I'm  right.  Something  terrible 
will  happen  to  us." 

"Because  we  do  a  good  action?" 

She  was  panting  now,  and  in  her  face  was  a  terror 
which  was  inexplicable.  I  do  not  know  what  she 
thought.  I  felt  that  she  was  possessed  by  some  shape- 
less dread  which  robbed  her  of  all  self-control.  As 
a  rule  she  was  so  calm;  her  agitation  now  was  amaz- 
ing. Stroeve  looked  at  her  for  a  while  with  puzzled 
consternation. 

"You  are  my  wife;  you  are  dearer  to  me  than  any- 
one in  the  world.  No  one  shall  come  here  without 
your  entire  consent." 

She  closed  her  eyes  for  a  moment,  and  I  thought 


138  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

she  was  going  to  faint.     I  was  a  little  impatient  with 
her;  I  had  not  suspected  that  she  was  so  neurotic  a 
woman.     Then  I  heard  Stroeve's  voice  again.      I|^ 
seemed  to  break  oddly  on  the  silence. 

"Haven't  you  been  in  bitter  distress  once  when  a 
helping  hand  was  held  out  to  you?  You  know  how 
much  it  means.  Wouldn't  you  like  to  do  someone  a 
good  turn  when  you  have  the  chance?" 

The  words  were  ordinary  enough,  and  to  my  mind 
there  was  in  them  something  so  hortatory  that  I  al- 
most smiled.  I  was  astonished  at  the  effect  they  had 
on  Blanche  Stroeve.  She  started  a  little,  and  gave 
her  husband  a  long  look.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on  the 
ground.  I  did  not  know  why  he  seemed  embarrassed. 
A  faint  colour  came  into  her  cheeks,  and  then  her 
face  became  white — more  than  white,  ghastly;  you 
felt  that  the  blood  had  shrunk  away  from  the  whole 
surface  of  her  body;  and  even  her  hands  were  pale. 
A  shiver  passed  through  her.  The  silence  of  the 
studio  seemed  to  gather  body,  so  that  it  became  an 
almost  palpable  presence.    I  was  bewildered. 

"Bring  Strickland  here.  Dirk.  I'll  do  my  best  for 
him." 

"My  precious,"  he  smiled. 

He  wanted  to  take  her  in  his  arms,  but  she  avoided 
him. 

"Don't  be  affectionate  before  strangers.  Dirk," 
she  said.     "It  makes  me  feel  such  a  fool." 

Her  manner  was  quite  normal  again,  and  no  one 
could  have  told  that  so  shortly  before  she  had  been 
shaken  by  such  a  great  emotion. 


Chapter  XXVI 

NEXT  day  we  moved  Strickland.  It  needed  a 
good  deal  of  firmness  and  still  more  patience 
to  induce  him  to  come,  but  he  was  really  too 
ill  to  offer  any  effective  resistance  to  Stroeve's  en- 
treaties and  to  my  determination.  We  dressed  him, 
while  he  feebly  cursed  us,  got  him  downstairs,  into 
a  cab,  and  eventually  to  Stroeve's  studio.  He  was 
so  exhausted  by  the  time  we  arrived  that  he  allowed 
us  to  put  him  to  bed  without  a  word.  He  was  ill  for 
six  weeks.  At  one  time  it  looked  as  though  he  could 
not  live  more  than  a  few  hours,  and  I  am  convinced 
that  it  was  only  through  the  Dutchman's  doggedness 
that  he  pulled  through.  I  have  never  known  a  more 
difficult  patient.  It  was  not  that  he  was  exacting  and 
querulous;  on  the  contrary,  he  never  complained,  he 
asked  for  nothing,  he  was  perfectly  silent;  but  he 
seemed  to  resent  the  care  that  was  taken  of  him;  he 
received  all  inquiries  about  his  feelings  or  his  needs 
with  a  jibe,  a  sneer,  or  an  oath.  I  found  him  de- 
testable, and  as  soon  as  he  was  out  of  danger  I  had 
no  hesitation  in  telling  him  so. 

"Go  to  hell,"  he  answered  briefly. 

Dirk  Stroeve,  giving  up  his  work  entirely,  nursed 
Strickland  with  tenderness  and  sympathy.  He  was 
dexterous  to  make  him  comfortable,  and  he  exercised 
a  cunning  of  which  I  should  never  have  thought  him 
capable  to  induce  him  to  take  the  medicines  prescribed 
by  the  doctor.    Nothing  was  too  much  trouble  for 

139 


UO  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

him.  Though  his  means  were  adequate  to  the  needs 
of  himself  and  his  wife,  he  certainly  had  no  money 
to  waste;  but  now  he  was  wantonly  extravagant  in 
the  purchase  of  delicacies,  out  of  season  and  dear, 
which  might  tempt  Strickland's  capricious  appetite. 
I  shall  never  forget  the  tactful  patience  with  which 
he  persuaded  him  to  take  nourishment.  He  was  never 
put  out  by  Strickland's  rudeness;  if  It  was  merely 
sullen,  he  appeared  not  to  notice  it;  if  It  was  aggres- 
sive, he  only  chuckled.  When  Strickland,  recovering 
somewhat,  was  in  a  good  humour  and  amused  him- 
self by  laughing  at  him,  he  deliberately  did  absurd 
things  to  excite  his  ridicule.  Then  he  would  give 
me  little  happy  glances,  so  that  I  might  notice  In 
how  much  better  form  the  patient  was.  Stroeve  was 
sublime. 

But  It  was  Blanche  who  most  surprised  me.  She 
proved  herself  not  only  a  capable,  but  a  devoted 
nurse.  There  was  nothing  In  her  to  remind  you 
that  she  had  so  vehemently  struggled  against  her 
husband's  wish  to  bring  Strickland  to  the  studio.  She 
insisted  on  doing  her  share  of  the  offices  needful  to 
the  sick.  She  arranged  his  bed  so  that  It  was  pos- 
sible to  change  the  sheet  without  disturbing  him.  She 
washed  him.  When  I  remarked  on  her  competence, 
she  told  me  with  that  pleasant  little  smile  of  hers 
that  for  a  while  she  had  worked  In  a  hospital.  She 
gave  no  sign  that  she  hated  Strickland  so  desperately. 
She  did  not  speak  to  him  much,  but  she  was  quick 
to  forestall  his  wants.  For  a  fortnight  It  was  neces- 
sary that  someone  should  stay  with  him  all  night,  and 
she  took  turns  at  watching  with  her  husband.     I 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  14i; 

wondered  what  she  thought  during  the  long  darlcness 
as  she  sat  by  the  bedside.  Strickland  was  a  weird 
figure  as  he  lay  there,  thinner  than  ever,  with  his 
ragged  red  beard  and  his  eyes  staring  feverishly  into 
vacancy;  his  illness  seemed  to  have  made  them  larger, 
and  they  had  an  unnatural  brightness. 

"Does  he  ever  talk,  to  you  in  the  night?"  I  asked 
her  once. 

"Never." 

"Do  you  dishke  him  as  much  as  you  did?" 

"More,  if  anything." 

She  looked  at  me  with  her  calm  gray  eyes.  Her 
expression  was  so  placid,  it  was  hard  to  believe  that 
she  was  capable  of  the  violent  emotion  I  had  wit- 
nessed. 

"Has  he  ever  thanked  you  for  what  you  do  for 
him?" 

"No,"  she  smiled. 

"He's  Inhuman." 

"He's  abominable." 

Stroeve  was,  of  course,  delighted  with  her.  He 
could  not  do  enough  to  show  his  gratitude  for  the 
whole-hearted  devotion  with  which  she  had  accepted 
the  burden  he  laid  on  her.  But  he  was  a  little  puz- 
zled by  the  behaviour  of  Blanche  and  Strickland 
towards  one  another. 

"Do  you  know,  I've  seen  them  sit  there  for  hours 
together  without  saying  a  word?" 

On  one  occasion,  when  Strickland  was  so  mucK 
better  that  In  a  day  or  two  he  was  to  get  up,  I  sat 
with  them  In  the  studio.  Dirk  and  I  were  talking. 
Mrs.  Stroeve  sewed,  and  I  thought  I  recognised  the 


142  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

shirt  she  was  mending  as  Strickland's.  He  lay  on  his 
back;  he  did  not  speak.  Once  I  saw  that  his  eyes 
were  fixed  on  Blanche  Stroeve,  and  there  was  in  them 
a  curious  irony.  Feeling  their  gaze,  she  raised  her 
own,  and  for  a  moment  they  stared  at  one  another. 
I  could  not  quite  understand  her  expression.  Her 
eyes  had  in  them  a  strange  perplexity,  and  perhaps 
• — but  why? — alarm.  In  a  moment  Strickland  looked 
iaway  and  idly  surveyed  the  ceiling,  but  she  continued 
to  stare  at  him,  and  now  her  look  was  quite  inex- 
plicable. 

In  a  few  days  Strickland  began  to  get  up.  He  was 
nothing  but  skin  and  bone.  His  clothes  hung  upon 
him  like  rags  on  a  scarecrow.  With  his  untidy  beard 
and  long  hair,  his  features,  always  a  little  larger  than 
life,  now  emphasised  by  illness,  he  had  an  extraordi- 
nary aspect;  but  it  was  so  odd  that  It  was  not  quite 
ugly.  There  was  something  monumental  in  his  un- 
gainliness.  I  do  not  know  how  to  express  precisely 
the  impression  he  made  upon  me.  It  was  not  exactly 
spirituality  that  was  obvious,  though  the  screen  of  the 
flesh  seemed  almost  transparent,  because  there  was 
in  his  face  an  outrageous  sensuality;  but,  though  it 
Sounds  nonsense,  it  seemed  as  though  his  sensuality 
:were  curiously  spiritual.  There  was  In  him  some- 
thing primitive.  He  seemed  to  partake  of  those  ob- 
scure forces  of  nature  which  the  Greeks  personified 
in  shapes  part  human  and  part  beast,  the  satyr  and 
the  faun.  I  thought  of  Marsyas,  whom  the  god 
flayed  because  he  had  dared  to  rival  him  in  song. 
Strickland  seemed  to  bear  in  his  heart  strange  har- 
monies and  unadventured  patterns,  and  I  foresaw  for 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  143 

him  an  end  of  torture  and  despair.  I  had  again  the 
feeling  that  he  was  possessed  of  a  devil;  but  you 
could  not  say  that  it  was  a  devil  of  evil,  for  it  was 
a  primitive  force  that  existed  before  good  and  ill. 

He  was  still  too  weak  to  paint,  and  he  sat  in  the 
studio,  silent,  occupied  with  God  knows  what  dreams, 
or  reading.  The  books  he  liked  were  queer;  some- 
times I  would  find  him  poring  over  the  poems  of 
Mallarme,  and  he  read  them  as  a  child  reads,  form- 
ing the  words  with  his  lips,  and  I  wondered  what 
strange  emotion  he  got  from  those  subtle  cadences 
and  obscure  phrases;  and  again  I  found  him  absorbed 
in  the  detective  novels  of  Gaboriau.  I  amused  my- 
self by  thinking  that  in  his  choice  of  books  he  showed 
pleasantly  the  irreconcilable  sides  of  his  fantastic 
nature.  It  was  singular  to  notice  that  even  in  the 
weak  state  of  his  body  he  had  no  thought  for  its 
comfort.  Stroeve  liked  his  ease,  and  in  his  studio 
were  a  couple  of  heavily  upholstered  arm-chairs  and 
a  large  divan.  Strickland  would  not  go  near  them, 
not  from  any  affectation  of  stoicism,  for  I  found  him 
seated  on  a  three-legged  stool  when  I  went  Into  the 
studio  one  day  and  he  was  alone,  but  because  he 
did  not  like  them.  For  choice  he  sat  on  a  kitchen 
chair  without  arms.  It  often  exasperated  me  to  see 
him.  I  never  knew  a  man  so  entirely  indifferent 
to  his  surroundings. 


Chapter  XXVII 

TWO  or  three  weeks  passed.  One  morning, 
having  come  to  a  pause  in  my  work,  I  thought 
I  would  give  myself  a  holiday,  and  I  went  to 
the  Louvre.  I  wandered  about  looking  at  the  pic- 
tures I  knew  so  well,  and  let  my  fancy  play  idly  with 
the  emotions  they  suggested.  I  sauntered  into  the 
long  gallery,  and  there  suddenly  saw  Stroeve.  I 
smiled,  for  his  appearance,  so  rotund  and  yet  so 
startled,  could  never  fail  to  excite  a  smile,  and  then 
as  I  came  nearer  I  noticed  that  he  seemed  singularly 
disconsolate.  He  looked  woebegone  and  yet  ridicu- 
lous, like  a  man  who  has  fallen  into  the  water  with 
all  his  clothes  on,  and,  being  rescued  from  death, 
frightened  still,  feels  that  he  only  looks  a  fool.  Turn- 
ing round,  he  stared  at  me,  but  I  perceived  that  he 
did  not  see  me.  His  round  blue  eyes  looked  harassed 
behind  his  glasses. 

"Stroeve,"  I  said. 

He  gave  a  little  start,  and  then  smiled,  but  his 
smile  was  rueful. 

"Why  are  you  idling  in  this  disgraceful  fashion?" 
I  asked  gaily. 

"It's  a  long  time  since  I  was  at  the  Louvre.     I 
thought  I'd  come  and  see  if  they  had  anything  new." 

"But  you  told  me  you  had  to  get  a  picture  fin- 
ished this  week." 

"Strickland's  painting  in  my  studio." 

"Well?" 

144 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  145 

"I  suggested  It  myself.  He's  not  strong  enough  to 
go  back  to  his  own  place  yet.  I  thought  we  could 
both  paint  there.  Lots  of  fellows  In  the  Quarter 
share  a  studio.  I  thought  it  would  be  fun.  I've 
•always  thought  It  would  be  jolly  to  have  someone  to 
talk  to  when  one  was  tired  of  work." 

He  said  all  this  slowly,  detaching  statement  from 
statement  with  a  little  awkward  silence,  and  he  kept 
his  kind,  foolish  eyes  fixed  on  mine.  They  were  full 
of  tears. 

"I  don't  think  I  understand,"  I  said. 

"Strickland  can't  work  with  anyone  else  In  the  stu- 
dio." 

"Damn  it  all,  it's  your  studio.  That's  his  look- 
out." 

He  looked  at  me  pitifully.  His  lips  were  trem- 
bling. 

"What  happened?"  I  asked,  rather  sharply. 

He  hesitated  and  flushed.  He  glanced  unhappily 
at  one  of  the  pictures  on  the  wall. 

"He  wouldn't  let  me  go  on  painting.  He  told  me 
to  get  out." 

"But  why  didn't  you  tell  him  to  go  to  hell?" 

"He  turned  me  out.  I  couldn't  very  well  struggle 
with  him.  He  threw  my  hat  after  me,  and  locked 
the  door." 

I  was  furious  with  Strickland,  and  was  indignant 
with  myself,  because  Dirk  Stroeve  cut  such  an  ab- 
surd figure  that  I  felt  inclined  to  laugh. 

"But  what  did  your  wife  say?" 

"She'd  gone  out  to  do  the  marketing." 

"Is  he  going  to  let  her  In?" 


146  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

"I  don't  know." 

I  gazed  at  Stroeve  with  perplexity.  He  stood  like 
a  schoolboy  with  whom  a  master  Is  finding  fault. 

"Shall  I  get  rid  of  Strickland  for  you?"  I  asked. 

He  gave  a  little  start,  and  his  shining  face  grew 
very  red. 

"No.    You'd  better  not  do  anything." 

He  nodded  to  me  and  walked  away.  It  was  clear 
that  for  some  reason  he  did  not  want  to  discuss  the 
matter.    I  did  not  understand. 


Chapter  XXVIII 

THE  explanation  came  a  week  later.  It  waal 
about  ten  o'clock  at  night;  I  had  been  dining 
by  myself  at  a  restaurant,  and  having  returned 
to  my  small  apartment,  was  stiting  in  my  parlour, 
reading.  I  heard  the  cracked  tinkling  of  the  bell,  and, 
going  into  the  corridor,  opened  the  door.  Stroeve 
stood  before  me. 

"Can  I  come  in?"  he  asked. 

In  the  dimness  of  the  landing  I  could  not  see  him 
very  well,  but  there  was  something  in  his  voice  that 
surprised  me.  I  knew  he  was  of  abstemious  habit 
or  I  should  have  thought  he  had  been  drinking.  I 
led  the  way  into  my  sitting  room  and  asked  him  to 
sit  down. 

"Thank  God  I've  found  you,"  he  said. 

"What's  the  matter?"  I  asked  in  astonishment  at 
his  vehemence. 

I  was  able  now  to  see  him  well.  As  a  rule  he 
was  neat  in  his  person,  but  now  his  clothes  were 
in  disorder.  He  looked  suddenly  bedraggled.  I 
was  convinced  he  had  been  drinking,  and  I  smiled. 
I  was  on  the  point  of  chaffing  him  on  his 
state. 

"I  didn't  know  where  to  go,"  he  burst  out.  "I 
came  here  earlier,  but  you  weren't  in." 

"I  dined  late,"  I  said. 

I  changed  my  mind:  it  was  not  liquor  that  had 


148  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

driven  him  to  this  obvious  desperation.  His  face, 
usually  so  rosy,  was  now  strangely  mottled.  His 
hands  trembled. 

**Has  anything  happened?"  I  asked. 

"My  wife  has  left  me." 

He  could  hardly  get  the  words  out.  He  gave  a 
little  gasp,  and  the  tears  began  to  trickle  down  his 
round  cheeks.  I  did  not  know  what  to  say.  My 
first  thought  was  that  she  had  come  to  the  end  of 
her  forbearance  with  his  infatuation  for  Strickland, 
and,  goaded  by  the  latter's  cynical  behaviour,  had 
insisted  that  he  should  be  turned  out.  I  knew  her 
capable  of  temper,  for  all  the  calmness  of  her  man- 
ner; and  if  Stroeve  still  refused,  she  might  easily; 
have  flung  out  of  the  studio  with  vows  never  to  re- 
turn. But  the  little  man  was  so  distressed  that  I 
could  not  smile. 

"My  dear  fellow,  don't  be  unhappy.  She'll  come 
back.  You  mustn't  take  very  seriously  what  womert 
say  when  they're  in  a  passion." 

"You  don't  understand.  She's  in  love  with  Strick- 
land." 

"What!"  I  was  startled  at  this,  but  the  idea  had 
no  sooner  taken  possession  of  me  than  I  saw  it  was 
absurd.  "How  can  you  be  so  silly?  You  don't  mean 
to  say  you're  jealous  of  Strickland?"  I  almost 
laughed.  "You  know  very  well  that  she  can't  bear 
the  sight  of  him." 

"You  don't  understand,"  he  moaned. 

"You're  an  hysterical  ass,"  I  said  a  little  impa- 
tiently. "Let  me  give  you  a  whisky-and-soda,  and 
you'll  feel  better." 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  149 

I  supposed  that  for  some  reason  or  other — and 
Heaven  knows  what  ingenuity  men  exercise  to  tor- 
ment themselves — Dirk  had  got  it  into  his  head  that 
his  wife  cared  for  Strickland,  and  with  his  genius 
for  blundering  he  might  quite  well  have  offended  her 
so  that,  to  anger  him,  perhaps,  she  had  taken  pains 
to  foster  his  suspicion. 

"Look  here,"  I  said,  "let's  go  back  to  your  studio. 
If  you've  made  a  fool  of  yourself  you  must  eat  hum- 
ble pie.  Your  wife  doesn't  strike  me  as  the  sort  of 
woman  to  bear  malice." 

"How  can  I  go  back  to  the  studio?"  he  said  wear- 
ily.  "They're  there.    I've  left  it  to  them." 

"Then  it's  not  your  wife  who's  left  you;  it's  you 
who've  left  your  wife." 

"For  God's  sake  don't  talk  to  me  like  that." 

Still  I  could  not  take  him  seriously.  I  did  not  for 
a  moment  believe  what  he  had  told  me.  But  he  was 
in  very  real  distress. 

"Well,  you've  come  here  to  talk  to  me  about  It. 
You'd  better  tell  me  the  whole  story." 

"This  afternoon  I  couldn't  stand  It  any  more.  I 
went  to  Strickland  and  told  him  I  thought  he  was 
quite  well  enough  to  go  back  to  his  own  place.  I 
wanted  the  studio  myself." 

"No  one  but  Strickland  would  have  needed  tell- 
ing," I  said.    "What  did  he  say?" 

"He  laughed  a  little ;  you  know  how  he  laughs,  not 
as  though  he  were  amused,  but  as  though  you  were 
a  damned  fool,  and  said  he'd  go  at  once.  He  began 
to  put  his  things  together.  You  remember  I  fetched 
from  his  room  what  I  thought  he  needed,  and  he 


150  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

asked  Blanche  for  a  piece  of  paper  and  some  string 
to  make  a  parcel." 

Stroeve  stopped,  gasping,  and  I  thought  he  was 
going  to  faint.  This  was  not  at  all  the  story  I  had 
expected  him  to  tell  me. 

"She  was  very  pale,  but  she  brought  the  paper 
and  the  string.  He  didn't  say  anything.  He  made 
the  parcel  and  he  whistled  a  tune.  He  took  no 
notice  of  either  of  us.  His  eyes  had  an  ironic  smile 
in  them.  My  heart  was  like  lead.  I  was  afraid 
something  was  going  to  happen,  and  I  wished  I 
hadn't  spoken.  He  looked  round  for  his  hat.  Then 
she  spoke: 

"  'I'm  going  with  Strickland,  Dirk,'  she  said.  *I 
can't  live  with  you  any  more.' 

**I  tried  to  speak,  but  the  words  wouldn't  come. 
Strickland  didn't  say  anything.  He  went  on 
whistling  as  though  it  had  nothing  to  do  with 
him." 

Stroeve  stopped  again  and  mopped  his  face.  I 
kept  quite  still.  I  believed  him  now,  and  I  was 
astounded.  But  all  the  same  I  could  not  under- 
s^nd. 

Then  he  told  me,  in  a  trembling  voice,  with  the 
tears  pouring  down  his  cheeks,  how  he  had  gone  up 
to  her,  trying  to  take  her  in  his  arms,  but  she  had 
drawn  away  and  begged  him  not  to  touch  her.  He 
implored  her  not  to  leave  him.  He  told  her  how 
passionately  he  loved  her,  and  reminded  her  of  all 
the  devotion  he  had  lavished  upon  her.  He  spoke 
to  her  of  the  happiness  of  their  life.  He  was  not 
angry  with  her.    'He  did  not  reproach  her. 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  ISf 

"Please  let  me  go  quietly,  Dirk,"  she  said  at  last. 
"Don't  you  understand  that  I  love  Strickland?  Where 
he  goes  I  shall  go." 

"But  you  must  know  that  he'll  never  make  you 
happy.  For  your  own  sake  don't  go.  You  don't 
know  what  you've  got  to  look  forward  to." 

"It's  your  fault.    You  insisted  on  his  coming  here." 

He  turned  to  Strickland. 

"Have  mercy  on  her,"  he  implored  him.  "You 
can't  let  her  do  anything  so  mad." 

"She  can  do  as  she  chooses,"  said  Strickland. 
"She's  not  forced  to  come." 

"My  choice  is  made,"  she  said,  in  a  dull  voice. 

Strickland's  injurious  calm  robbed  Stroeve  of  the 
rest  of  his  self-control.  Blind  rage  seized  him,  and 
without  knowing  what  he  was  doing  he  flung  himself 
on  Strickland.  Strickland  was  taken  by  surprise  and 
he  staggered,  but  he  was  very  strong,  even  after  his 
illness,  and  in  a  moment,  he  did  not  exactly  know 
how,  Stroeve  found  himself  on  the  floor. 

"You  funny  little  man,"  said  Strickland. 

Stroeve  picked  himself  up.  He  noticed  that  his 
wife  had  remained  perfectly  still,  and  to  be  made 
ridiculous  before  her  increased  his  humiliation.  His 
spectacles  had  tumbled  off  in  the  struggle,  and  he 
could  not  immediately  see  them.  She  picked  them  up 
and  silently  handed  them  to  him.  He  seemed  sud- 
denly to  realise  his  unhappiness,  and  though  he  knew 
he  was  making  himself  still  more  absurd,  he  began 
to  cry.  He  hid  his  face  in  his  hands.  The  others 
watched  him  without  a  word.  They  did  not  move 
from  where  they  stood. 


152  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

"Oh,  my  dear,"  he  groaned  at  last,  "how  can  you 
be  so  cruel?" 

"I  can't  help  myself,  Dirk,"  she  answered. 

"I've  worshipped  you  as  no  woman  was  ever 
worshipped  before.  If  in  anything  I  did  I  displeased 
you,  why  didn't  you  tell  me,  and  I'd  have  changed. 
I've  done  everything  I  could  for  you." 

She  did  not  answer.  Her  face  was  set,  and  he 
saw  that  he  was  only  boring  her.  She  put  on  a  coat 
and  her  hat.  She  moved  towards  the  door,  and  he 
saw  that  in  a  moment  she  would  be  gone.  He  went 
up  to  her  quickly  and  fell  on  his  knees  before  her, 
seizing  her  hands :  he  abandoned  all  self-respect. 

"Oh,  don't  go,  my  darling.  I  can't  live  without 
you;  I  shall  kill  myself.  If  I've  done  anything  to 
offend  you  I  beg  you  to  forgive  me.  Give  me  an- 
other chance.  I'll  try  harder  still  to  make  you 
happy." 

"Get  up.  Dirk.  You're  making  yourself  a  perfect 
fool." 

He  staggered  to  his  feet,  but  still  he  would  not 
let  her  go. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  he  said  hastily.  "You 
don't  know  what  Strickland's  place  is  like.  You  can't 
live  there.    It  would  be  awful." 

"If  I  don't  care,  I  don't  see  why  you  should." 

"Stay  a  minute  longer.  I  must  speak.  After  all, 
you  can't  grudge  me  that." 

"What  is  the  good?  I've  made  up  my  mind. 
Nothing  that  you  can  say  will  make  me  alter  it." 

He  gulped,  and  put  his  hand  to  his  heart  to  ease 
its  painful  beating. 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  15S 

"I'm  not  going  to  ask  you  to  change  your  mind, 
but  I  want  you  to  listen  to  me  for  a  minute.  It's 
the  last  thing  I  shall  ever  ask  you.  Don't  refuse  me 
that." 

She  paused,  looking  at  him  with  those  reflective 
eyes  of  hers,  which  now  were  so  different  to  him. 
She  came  back  into  the  studio  and  leaned  against 
the  table. 

"Well?" 

Stroeve  made  a  great  effort  to  collect  himself. 

"You  must  be  a  little  reasonable.  You  can't  live 
on  air,  you  know.    Strickland  hasn't  got  a  penny." 

"I  know." 

"You'll  suffer  the  most  awful  privations.  You 
know  why  he  took  so  long  to  get  well.  He  was  half 
starved." 

"I  can  earn  money  for  him." 

"How?" 

"I  don't  know.    I  shall  find  a  way." 

A  horrible  thought  passed  through  the  Dutchman's 
mind,  and  he  shuddered. 

"I  think  you  must  be  mad.  I  don'^t  know  what 
has  come  over  you." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"Now  may  I  go?" 

"Wait  one  second  longer." 

He  looked  round  his  studio  wearily;  Ke  Kad  loved 
it  because  her  presence  had  made  it  gay  and  home- 
like; he  shut  his  eyes  for  an  instant;  then  he  gave 
her  a  long  look  as  though  to  Impress  on  his  mind 
the  picture  of  her.    He  got  up  and  took  his  hat. 

"No;  I'll  go." 


154  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

"You?" 

She  was  startled.  She  did  not  know  what  he 
meant. 

"I  can't)  bear  to  think  of  you  living  In  that  hor- 
rible, filthy  attic.  After  all,  this  is  your  home  just 
as  much  as  mine.  You'll  be  comfortable  here.  You'll 
be  spared  at  least  the  worst  privations." 

He  went  to  the  drawer  in  which  he  kept  his  money 
and  took  out  several  bank-notes. 

"I  would  like  to  give  you  half  what  I've  got  here." 

He  put  them  on  the  table.  Neither  Strickland  nor 
his  wife  spoke. 

Then  he  recollected  something  else. 

"Will  you  pack  up  my  clothes  and  leave  them  with 
the  concierge  ?  I'll  come  and  fetch  them  to-morrow." 
He  tried  to  smile.  "Good-bye,  my  dear.  I'm  grate- 
ful for  all  the  happiness  you  gave  me  in  the  past." 

He  walked  out  and  closed  the  door  behind  him. 
With  my  mind's  eye  I  saw  Strickland  throw  his  hat 
on  a  table,  and,  sitting  down,  begin  to  smoke  a  cig- 
arette. 


Chapter  XXIX 

1KEPT  silence  for  a  little  while,  thinking  of  what 
Stroeve  had  told  me.  I  could  not  stomach  his 
weakness,  and  he  saw  my  disapproval. 

"You  know  as  well  as  I  do  how  Strickland  lived," 
he  said  tremulously.  "I  couldn't  let  her  live  in  those 
circumstances — I  simply  couldn't." 

"That's  your  business,"  I  answered. 

"What  would  yoii  have  done?"  he  asked. 

"She  went  with  her  eyes  open.  If  she  had  to  put 
up  with  certain  inconveniences  It  was  her  own  look- 
out." 

"Yes;  but,  you  see,  you  don't  love  her." 

"Do  you  love  her  still?" 

"Oh,  more  than  ever.  Strickland  isn't  the  man  to 
make  a  woman  happy.  It  can't  last.  I  want  her  to 
know  that  I  shall  never  fail  her." 

"Does  that  mean  that  you're  prepared  to  take  her 
back?" 

"I  shouldn't  hesitate.  Why,  she'll  want  me  more 
than  ever  then.  When  she's  alone  and  humiliated 
and  broken  it  would  be  dreadful  if  she  had  nowhere 
to  go." 

He  seemed  to  bear  no  resentment.  I  suppose  it 
was  commonplace  In  me  that  I  felt  slightly  outraged 
at  his  lack  of  spirit.  Perhaps  he  guessed  what  was 
5q  my  mind,  for  he  said : 

"I  couldn't  expect  her  to  love  me  as  I  loved  her. 
I'm  a  buffoon.    I'm  not  the  sort  of  man  that  women 

155 


156  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

love.  I've  always  known  that.  I  can't  blame  Her 
if  she's  fallen  In  love  with  Strickland." 

"You  certainly  have  less  vanity  than  any  man  I've 
ever  known,"  I  said. 

"I  love  her  so  much  better  than  myself.  It  seems 
to  me  that  when  vanity  comes  Into  love  it  can  only 
be  because  really  you  love  yourself  best.  After  all, 
it  constantly  happens  that  a  man  when  he's  married 
falls  in  love  with  somebody  else ;  when  he  gets  over 
It  he  returns  to  his  wife,  and  she  takes  him  back,  and 
everyone  thinks  It  very  natural.  Why  should  it  be 
different  with  women  ?'* 

"I  dare  say  that's  logical,"  I  smiled,  "but  most 
men  are  made  differently,  and  they  can't." 

But  while  I  talked  to  Stroeve  I  was  puzzling  over 
the  suddenness  of  the  whole  affair.  I  could  not  Imag- 
ine that  he  had  had  no  warning.  I  remembered  the 
curious  look  I  had  seen  in  Blanche  Stroeve's  eyes; 
perhaps  Its  explanation  was  that  she  was  growing 
dimly  conscious  of  a  feeling  in  her  heart  that  sur- 
prised and  alarmed  her. 

"Did  you  have  no  suspicion  before  to-day  that  there 
was  anything  between  them?"  I  asked. 

He  did  not  answer  for  a  while.  There  was  a 
pencil  on  the  table,  and  unconsciously  He  drew  a  head 
on  the  blotting-paper. 

"Please  say  so,  if  you  hate  my  asking  you  ques- 
tions," I  said. 

"It  eases  me  to  talk.  Oh,  if  you  knew  the  fright- 
ful anguish  in  my  heart."  He  threw  the  pencil 
down.  "Yes,  I've  known  it  for  a  fortnight.  I 
knew  it  before  she  did." 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  157 

"Why  on  eartH  didn't  you  send  Strickland  padc- 

ing?" 

"I  couldn't  believe  it.  It  seemed  so  improbable. 
She  couldn't  bear  the  sight  of  him.  It  was  more 
than  improbable ;  it  was  incredible.  I  thought  it  was 
merely  jealousy.  You  see,  I've  always  been  jealous, 
but  I  trained  myself  never  to  show  It;  I  was  jealous 
of  every  man  she  knew;  I  was  jealous  of  you.  I 
knew  she  didn't  love  me  as  I  loved  her.  That  was 
only  natural,  wasn't  it?  But  she  allowed  me  to  love 
her,  and  that  was  enough  to  make  me  happy.  I 
forced  myself  to  go  out  for  hours  together  in  order 
to  leave  them  by  themselves;  I  wanted  to  punish 
myself  for  suspicions  which  were  unworthy  of  me; 
^nd  when  I  came  back  I  found  they  didn't  want  me 
^ — ^not  Strickland,  he  didn't  care  if  I  was  there  or 
not,  but  Blanche.  She  shuddered  when  I  went  to 
kiss  her.  When  at  last  I  was  certain  I  didn't  know 
what  to  do;  I  knew  they'd  only  laugh  at  me  if  I 
made  a  scene.  I  thought  if  I  held  my  tongue  and 
pretended  not  to  see,  everything  would  come  right. 
I  made  up  my  mind  to  get  him  away  quietly,  with- 
out quarrelling.  Oh,  if  you  only  knew  what  I've  suf- 
fered!" 

Then  he  told  me  again  of  his  asking  Strickland  to 
go.  He  chose  his  moment  carefully,  and  tried  to 
make  his  request  sound  casual;  but  he  could  not 
master  the  trembling  of  his  voice ;  and  he  felt  him- 
self that  into  words  that  he  wished  to  seem  jovial 
and  friendly  there  crept  the  bitterness  of  his  jeal- 
ousy. He  had  not  expected  Strickland  to  take  him 
up  on  the  spot  and  make  his  preparations  to  go  there 


J58  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  ^ 

and  then;  above  all,  he  had  not  expected  his  wlfe*s 
decision  to  go  with  him.  I  saw  that  now  he  wished 
with  all  his  heart  that  he  had  held  his  tongue.  He 
preferred  the  anguish  of  jealousy  to  the  anguish  of 
separation. 

"I  wanted  to  kill  him,  and  I  only  made  a  fool  of 
myself." 

He  was  silent  for  a  long  time,  and  then  he  said 
what  I  knew  was  in  his  mind. 

"If  I'd  only  waited,  perhaps  it  would  have  gone  all 
right.  I  shouldn't  have  been  so  Impatient.  Oh,  poor 
child,  what  have  I  driven  her  to?" 

I  shrugged  my  shoulders,  but  did  not  speak.  I 
had  no  sympathy  for  Blanche  Stroeve,  but  knew  that 
it  would  only  pain  poor  Dirk  if  I  told  him  exactly 
what  I  thought  of  her. 

He  had  reached  that  stage  of  exhaustion  when  he 
could  not  stop  talking.  He  went  over  again  every 
word  of  the  scene.  Now  something  occurred  to  him 
that  he  had  not  told  me  before;  now  he  discussed 
what  he  ought  to  have  said  instead  of  what  he  did 
say;  then  he  lamented  his  blindness.  He  regretted 
that  he  had  done  this,  and  blamed  himself  that  he 
had  omitted  the  other.  It  grew  later  and  later,  and 
at  last  I  was  as  tired  as  he. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  now?"  I  said  finally. 

"What  can  I  do?  I  shall  wait  till  she  sends  for 
me. 

"Why  don't  you  go  away  for  a  bit?" 

"No,  no;  I  must  be  at  hand  when  she  wants  me." 

For  the  present  he  seemed  quite  lost.  He  had 
made  no  plans.     When  I  suggested  that  he  should 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  159 

go  to  bed  he  said  he  could  not  sleep ;  he  wanted  to 
go  out  and  walk  about  the  streets  till  day.  He  was 
evidently  in  no  state  to  be  left  alone.  I  persuaded 
him  to  stay  the  night  with  me,  and  I  put  him  into 
my  own  bed.  I  had  a  divan  in  my  sitting-room,  and 
could  very  well  sleep  on  that.  He  was  by  now  so 
worn  out  that  he  could  not  resist  my  firmness.  I  gave 
him  a  sufficient  dose  of  veronal  to  insure  his  uncon- 
sciousness for  several  hours,  I  thought  that  was  the 
best  service  I  could  render  him. 


Chapter  XXX 

BUT  the  bed  I  made  up  for  myself  was  suffi* 
clently  uncomfortable  to  give  me  a  wakeful 
night,  and  I  thought  a  good  deal  of  what  the 
unlucky  Dutchman  had  told  me.  I  was  not  so  much 
puzzled  by  Blanche  Stroeve's  action,  for  I  saw  in 
that  merely  the  result  of  a  physical  appeal.  I  do 
not  suppose  she  had  ever  really  cared  for  her  hus- 
band, arid  what  I  had  taken  for  love  was  no  more 
than  the  feminine  response  to  caresses  and  comfort 
which  in  the  minds  of  most  women  passes  for  it. 
It  is  a  passive  feeling  capable  of  being  roused  for 
any  object,  as  the  vine  can  grow  on  any  tree;  and 
the  wisdom  of  the  world  recognises  its  strength  when 
it  urges  a  girl  to  marry  the  man  who  wants  her  with 
the  assurance  that  love  will  follow.  It  is  an  emotion 
made  up  of  the  satisfaction  in  security,  pride  of 
property,  the  pleasure  of  being  desired,  the  grat- 
ification of  a  household,  and  it  is  only  by  an  amiable 
Vanity  that  women  ascribe  to  it  spiritual  value.  It 
is  an  emotion  which  is  defenceless  against  passion. 
I  suspected  that  Blanche  Stroeve's  violent  dislike  of 
Strickland  had  in  it  from  the  beginning  a  vague  ele- 
ment of  sexual  attraction.  Who  am  I  that  I  should 
seek  to  unravel  the  mysterious  intricacies  of  sex? 
Perhaps  Stroeve's  passion  excited  without  satisfying 
that  part  of  her  nature,  and  she  hated  Strickland 
because  she  felt  in  him  the  power  to  give  her  what 
she  needed.     I  think  she  was  quite  sincere  when  she 

160 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  161 

Struggled  against  her  husband's  desire  to  bring  him 
into  the  studio;  I  think  she  was  frightened  of  him, 
though  she  knew  not  why;  and  I  remembered  how 
she  had  foreseen  disaster.  I  think  in  some  curious 
way  the  horror  which  she  felt  for  him  was  a  trans- 
ference of  the  horror  which  she  felt  for  herself  be- 
cause he  so  strangely  troubled  her.  His  appearance 
was  wild  and  uncouth ;  there  was  aloofness  in  his  eyes 
and  sensuality  in  his  mouth;  he  was  big  and  strong; 
he  gave  the  impression  of  untamed  passion;  and 
perhaps  she  felt  in  him,  too,  that  sinister  element 
which  had  made  me  think  of  those  wild  beings  of 
the  world's  early  history  when  matter,  retaining  its 
early  connection  with  the  earth,  seemed  to  possess 
yet  a  spirit  of  Its  own.  If  he  affected  her  at  all, 
it  was  inevitable  that  she  should  love  or  hate  him. 
She  hated  him. 

And  then  I  fancy  that  the  daily  Intimacy  with  the 
sick  man  moved  her  strangely.  She  raised  his  head 
to  give  him  food,  and  it  was  heavy  against  her  hand; 
when  she  had  fed  him  she  wiped  his  sensual  mouth 
and  his  red  beard.  She  washed  his  limbs;  they  were 
covered  with  thick  hair;  and  when  she  dried  his  hands, 
even  in  his  weakness  they  were  strong  and  sinewy. 
His  fingers  were  long;  they  were  the  capable,  fashion- 
ing fingers  of  the  artist;  and  I  know  not  what  trou- 
bling thoughts  they  excited  In  her.  He  slept  very 
quietly,  without  a  movement,  so  that  he  might  have 
been  dead,  and  he  was  like  some  wild  creature  of 
the  woods,  resting  after  a  long  chase;  and  she  won- 
dered what  fancies  passed  through  his  dreams.  Did 
he  dream  of  the  nymph  flying  through  the  woods  of 


162  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

Greece  with  the  satyr  In  hot  pursuit?  She  fled,  swift 
cf  foot  and  desperate,  but  he  gained  on  her  step  by 
step,  till  she  felt  his  hot  breath  on  her  neck;  and  still 
she  fled  silently,  and  silently  he  pursued,  and  when 
at  last  he  seized  her  was  It  terror  that  thrilled  her 
heart  or  was  it  ecstasy? 

Blanche  Stroeve  was  In  the  cruel  grip  of  appetite. 
Perhaps  she  hated  Strickland  still,  but  she  hungered 
for  him,  and  everything  that  had  made  up  her  life 
till  then  became  of  no  account.  She  ceased  to  be  a 
woman,  complex,  kind  and  petulant,  considerate  and 
thoughtless;  she  was  a  Maenad.    She  was  desire. 

But  perhaps  this  Is  very  fanciful;  and  It  may  be 
that  she  was  merely  bored  with  her  husband  and 
went  to  Strickland  out  of  a  callous  curiosity.  She  may 
have  had  no  particular  feeling  for  him,  but  suc- 
cumbed to  his  wish  from  propinquity  or  idleness,  to 
find  then  that  she  was  powerless  In  a  snare  of  her 
own  contriving.  How  did  I  know  what  were  the 
thoughts  and  emotions  behind  that  placid  brow  and 
those  cool  gray  eyes? 

But  If  one  could  be  certain  of  nothing  in  dealing 
with  creatures  so  Incalculable  as  human  beings,  there 
were  explanations  of  Blanche  Stroeve's  behaviour 
which  were  at  all  events  plausible.  On  the  other 
hand,  I  did  not  understand  Strickland  at  all.  I 
racked  my  brain,  but  could  In  no  way  account  for 
an  action  so  contrary  to  my  conception  of  him.  It 
was  not  strange  that  he  should  so  heartlessly  have 
betrayed  his  friends'  confidence,  nor  that  he  hesitated 
not  at  all  to  gratify  a  whim  at  the  cost  of  another's 
misery.    That  was  In  his  character.    He  was  a  man 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  16$ 

without  any  conception  of  gratitude.  He  had  no 
compassion.  The  emotions  common  to  most  of  us 
simply  did  not  exist  in  him,  and  it  was  as  absurd  to 
blame  him  for  not  feeling  them  as  for  blaming  the 
tiger  because  he  is  fierce  and  cruel.  But  it  was  the 
whim  I  could  not  understand. 

I  could  not  believe  that  Strickland  had  fallen  In^ 
love  with  Blanche  Stroeve.  I  did  not  believe  him 
capable  of  love.  That  is  an  emotion  in  which  ten- 
derness is  an  essential  part,  but  Strickland  had  no 
tenderness  either  for  himself  or  for  others;  there  is 
In  love  a  sense  of  weakness,  a  desire  to  protect,  an 
eagerness  to  do  good  and  to  give  pleasure — if  not 
unselfishness,  at  all  events  a  selfishness  which  mar- 
vellously conceals  itself;  it  has  in  it  a  certain  diffi- 
dence. These  were  not  traits  which  I  could  imagine 
in  Strickland.  Love  is  absorbing;  it  takes  the  lover 
out  of  himself;  the  most  clear-sighted,  though  he  may 
know,  cannot  realise  that  his  love  will  cease;  it  gives 
body  to  what  he  knows  is  illusion,  and,  knowing  it 
is  nothing  else,  he  loves  it  better  than  reality.  It 
makes  a  man  a  little  more  than  himself,  and  at  the 
same  time  a  little  less.  He  ceases  to  be  himself.  He 
is  no  longer  an  individual,  but  a  thing,  an  instrument 
to  some  purpose  foreign  to  his  ego.  Love  is  never 
quite  devoid  of  sentimentality,  and  Strickland  was 
the  least  Inclined  to  that  Infirmity  of  any  man  I  have 
known.  I  could  not  believe  that  he  would  ever  suf- 
fer that  possession  of  himself  which  love  is;  he  could 
never  endure  a  foreign  yoke.  I  believed  him  capa- 
ble of  uprooting  from  his  heart,  though  it  might  be 
with  agony,  so  that  he  was  left  battered  and  en- 


164.  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

sanguined,  anything  that  came  between  himself  and 
that  uncomprehended  craving  that  urged  him  con- 
stantly to  he  knew  not  what.  If  I  have  succeeded  at 
all  in  giving  the  complicated  impression  that  Strick- 
land made  on  me,  it  will  not  seem  outrageous  to 
say  that  I  felt  he  was  at  once  too  great  and  too  small 
for  love. 

But  I  suppose  that  everyone's  conception  of  the 
passion  is  formed  on.  his  own  idiosyncrasies,  and  it 
is  different  with  every  different  person.  A  man  like 
Strickland  would  love  in  a  manner  peculiar  to  him- 
self. It  was  vain  to  seek  the  analysis  of  his  emo- 
tion. 


Chapter  XXXI 

NEXT  day,  though  I  pressed  him  to  remain, 
Stroeve  left  me.  I  offered  to  fetch  his  things 
from  the  studio,  but  he  insisted  on  going  him- 
self; I  think  he  hoped  they  had  not  thought  of  get- 
ting them  together,  so  that  he  would  have  an  op- 
portunity of  seeing  his  wife  again  and  perhaps  in- 
ducing her  to  come  back  to  him.  But  he  found  his 
traps  waiting  for  him  in  the  porter's  lodge,  and  the 
concierge  told  him  that  Blanche  had  gone  out.  I  do 
not  think  he  resisted  the  temptation  of  giving  her  an 
account  of  his  troubles.  I  found  that  he  was  telling 
them  to  everyone  he  knew;  he  expected  sympathy, 
but  only  excited  ridicule. 

He  bore  himself  most  unbecomingly.  Knowing  at 
what  time  his  wife  did  her  shopping,  one  day,  unable 
any  longer  to  bear  not  seeing  her,  he  waylaid  her 
in  the  street.  She  would  not  speak  to  him,  but  he 
insisted  on  speaking  to  her.  He  spluttered  out 
words  of  apology  for  any  wrong  he  had  committed 
towards  her;  he  told  her  he  loved  her  devotedly  and 
begged  her  to  return  to  him.  She  would  not  answer; 
she  walked  hurriedly,  with  averted  face.  I  imagined 
him  with  his  fat  little  legs  trying  to  keep  up  with 
her.  Panting  a  little  in  his  haste,  he  told  her  how 
miserable  he  was ;  he  besought  her  to  have  mercy  on 
him;  he  promised,  if  she  would  forgive  him,  to  do 
everything  she  wanted.     He  offered  to  take  her  for 

165 


166  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

a  journey.  He  told  her  that  Strickland  would  soon 
tire  of  her.  When  he  repeated  to  me  the  whole 
sordid  little  scene  I  was  outraged.  He  had  shown 
neither  sense  nor  dignity.  He  had  omitted  nothing 
that  could  make  his  wife  despise  him.  There  is  no 
cruelty  greater  than  a  woman's  to  a  man  who  loves 
her  and  whom  she  does  not  love;  she  has  no  kind- 
ness then,  no  tolerance  even,  she  has  only  an  Insane 
Irritation.  Blanche  Stroeve  stopped  suddenly,  and  as 
hard  as  she  could  slapped  her  husband's  face.  She 
took  advantage  of  his  confusion  to  escape,  and  ran 
up  the  stairs  to  the  studio.  No  word  had  passed 
her  lips. 

When  he  told  me  this  he  put  his  hand  to  his  cheelc 
as  though  he  still  felt  the  smart  of  the  blow,  and  in 
his  eyes  was  a  pain  that  was  heartrending  and  an 
amazement  that  was  ludicrous.  He  looked  like  an 
ovfirblown  schoolboy,  and  though  I  felt  so  sorry  for 
him,  I  could  hardly  help  laughing. 

Then  he  took  to  walking  along  the  street  which 
she  must  pass  through  to  get  to  the  shops,  and  he 
would  stand  at  the  corner,  on  the  other  side,  as  she 
went  along.  He  dared  not  speak  to  her  again,  but 
sought  to  put  into  his  round  eyes  the  appeal  that 
was  in  his  heart.  I  suppose  he  had  some  idea  that 
the  sight  of  his  misery  would  touch  her.  She  never 
made  the  smallest  sign  that  she  saw  him.  She  never 
even  changed  the  hour  of  her  errands  or  sought  an 
alternative  route.  I  have  an  idea  that  there  was  some 
cruelty  in  her  indifference.  Perhaps  she  got  enjoy- 
ment out  of  the  torture  she  inflicted.  I  wondered  why 
she  hated  him  so  much. 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  167 

I  begged  Stroeve  to  behave  more  wisely.  His  want 
of  spirit  was  exasperating. 

"You're  doing  no  good  at  all  by  going  on  like 
this,"  I  said.  "I  think  you'd  have  been  wiser  if  you'd 
hit  her  over  the  head  with  a  stick.  She  wouldn't 
have  despised  you  as  she  does  now." 

I  suggested  that  he  should  go  home  for  a  while. 
He  had  often  spoken  to  me  of  the  silent  town,  some^ 
where  up  in  the  north  of  Holland,  where  his  parents 
still  lived.  They  were  poor  people.  His  father  was 
a  carpenter,  and  they  dwelt  in  a  little  old  red-brick 
house,  neat  and  clean,  by  the  side  of  a  sluggish  canal. 
The  streets  were  wide  and  empty;  for  two  hundred 
years  the  place  had  been  dying,  but  the  houses  had 
the  homely  stateliness  of  their  time.  Rich  merchants, 
sending  their  wares  to  the  distant  Indies,  had  lived 
in  them  calm  and  prosperous  lives,  and  in  their  de- 
cent decay  they  kept  still  an  aroma  of  their  splendid 
past.  You  could  wander  along  the  canal  till  you  came 
to  broad  green  fields,  with  windmills  here  and  there, 
in  which  cattle,  black  and  white,  grazed  lazily.  I 
thought  that  among  those  surroundings,  with  their 
recollections  of  his  boyhood.  Dirk  Stroeve  would  for- 
get his  unhapplness.     But  he  would  not  go. 

"I  must  be  here  when  she  needs  me,"  he  repeated. 
"It  would  be  dreadful  If  something  terrible  hap- 
pened  and  I  were  not  at  hand." 

"What  do  you  think  is  going  to  happen?"  I  asked. 

"I  don't  know.     But  I'm  afraid." 

I  shrugged  my  shoulders. 

For  all  his  pain,  Dirk  Stroeve  remained  a  ridicu- 
lous object.     He  might  have  excited  sympathy  if 


168  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

He  had  grown  worn  and  thin.  He  did  nothing  of  the 
kind.  He  remained  fat,  and  his  round,  red  cheeks 
shone  like  ripe  apples.  He  had  great  neatness  of 
person,  and  he  continued  to  wear  his  spruce  black  coat 
and  his  bowler  hat,  always  a  little  too  small  for  him, 
in  a  dapper,  jaunty  manner.  He  was  getting  some- 
thing of  a  paunch,  and  sorrow  had  no  effect  on  it. 
He  looked  more  than  ever  like  a  prosperous  bag- 
man. It  is  hard  that  a  man's  exterior  should  tally 
so  little  sometimes  with  his  soul.  Dirk  Stroeve  had 
the  passion  of  Romeo  in  the  body  of  Sir  Toby  Belch. 
He  had  a  sweet  and  generous  nature,  and  yet  was 
always  blundering;  a  real  feeling  for  what  was  beau- 
tiful and  the  capacity  to  create  only  what  was  com- 
monplace ;  a  peculiar  delicacy  of  sentiment  and  gross 
manners.  He  could  exercise  tact  when  dealing  with 
the  affairs  of  others,  but  none  when  dealing  with  his 
own.  What  a  cruel  practical  joke  old  Nature  played 
when  she  flung  so  many  contradictory  elements  to- 
gether, and  left  the  man  face  to  face  with  the  per- 
plexing callousness  of  the  universe. 


Chapter  XXXII 

I  DID  not  see  Strickland  for  several  weeks.  I  was 
disgusted  with  him,  and  if  I  had  had  an  oppor- 
tunity should  have  been  glad  to  tell  him  so,  but 
I  saw  no  object  in  seeking  him  out  for  the  purpose. 
I  am  a  little  shy  of  any  assumption  of  moral  indig- 
nation; there  is  always  in  it  an  element  of  self-sat- 
isfaction which  makes  it  awkward  to  anyone  who  has 
a  sense  of  humour.  It  requires  a  very  lively  passion 
to  steel  me  to  my  own  ridicule.  There  was  a  sar- 
donic sincerity  in  Strickland  which  made  me  sensitive 
to  anything  that  might  suggest  a  pose. 

But  one  evening  when  I  was  passing  along  the 
Avenue  de  Clichy  in  front  of  the  cafe  which  Strick- 
land frequented  and  which  I  now  avoided,  I  ran 
straight  into  him.  He  was  accompanied  by  Blanche 
Stroeve,  and  they  were  just  going  to  Strickland's  fa- 
vourite corner. 

"Where  the  devil  have  you  been  all  this  time?" 
said  he.     "I  thought  you  must  be  away." 

His  cordiality  was  proof  that  he  knew  I  had  no 
wish  to  speak  to  him.  He  was  not  a  man  with  whom 
it  was  worth  while  wasting  politeness. 

"No,"  I  said;  "I  haven't  been  away." 

"Why  haven't  you  been  here  ?" 

"There  are  more  cafes  in  Paris  than  one,  at  which 
to  trifle  away  an  idle  hour." 

Blanche  then  held  out  her  hand  and  bade  me 
good-evening.    I  do  not  know  why  I  had  expected  her 

169 


170  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

to  be  somehow  changed;  she  wore  the  same  gray 
dress  that  she  wore  so  often,  neat  and  becoming,  and 
her  brow  was  as  candid,  her  eyes  as  untroubled,  as 
when  I  had  been  used  to  see  her  occupied  with  her 
household  duties  in  the  studio. 

"Come  and  have  a  game  of  chess,"  said  Strick- 
land. 

I  do  not  know  why  at  the  moment  I  could  think 
of  no  excuse.  I  followed  them  rather  sulkily  to  the 
table  at  which  Strickland  always  sat,  and  he  called 
for  the  board  and  the  chessmen.  They  both  took 
the  situation  so  much  as  a  matter  of  course  that  I  felt 
it  absurd  to  do  otherwise.  Mrs.  Stroeve  watched  the 
game  with  inscrutable  face.  She  was  silent,  but  she 
had  always  been  silent.  I  looked  at  her  mouth  iot 
an  expression  that  could  give  me  a  clue  to  what  she 
felt;  I  watched  her  eyes  for  some  tell-tale  flash,  some 
hint  of  dismay  or  bitterness;  I  scanned  her  brow  for 
any  passing  line  that  might  indicate  a  settling  emo- 
tion. Her  face  was  a  mask  that  told  nothing.  Her 
hands  lay  on  her  lap  motionless,  one  in  the  other 
loosely  clasped.  I  knew  from  what  I  had  heard 
that  she  was  a  woman  of  violent  passions;  and  that 
injurious  blow  that  she  had  given  Dirk,  the  man  who 
had  loved  her  so  devotedly,  betrayed  a  sudden  tem- 
per and  a  horrid  cruelty.  She  had  abandoned  the 
safe  shelter  of  her  husband's  protection  and  the  com- 
fortable ease  of  a  well-provided  establishment  for 
what  she  could  not  but  see  was  an  extreme  hazard. 
It  showed  an  eagerness  for  adventure,  a  readiness  for 
the  hand-to-mouth,  which  the  care  she  took  of  her 
home  and  her  love  of  good  housewifery  made  not  a, 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  171 

little  remarkable.  She  must  be  a  woman  of  com- 
plicated character,  and  there  was  something  dramatic 
in  the  contrast  of  that  with  her  demure  appearance. 

I  was  excited  by  the  encounter,  and  my  fancy 
worked  busily  while  I  sought  to  concentrate  myself 
on  the  game  I  was  playing.  I  always  tried  my  best 
to  beat  Strickland,  because  he  was  a  player  who 
despised  the  opponent  he  vanquished;  his  exultation 
in  victory  made  defeat  more  difficult  to  bear.  On 
the  other  hand,  if  he  was  beaten  he  took  it  with 
complete  good-humour.  He  was  a  bad  winner  and 
a  good  loser.  Those  who  think  that  a  man  betrays 
his  character  nowhere  more  clearly  than  when  he 
is  playing  a  game  might  on  this  draw  subtle  infer- 
ences. 

When  he  had  finished  I  called  the  waiter  to  pay 
for  the  drinks,  and  left  them.  The  meeting  had 
been  devoid  of  incident.  No  word  had  been  said  to 
give  me  anything  to  think  about,  and  any  surmises 
I  might  make  were  unwarranted.  I  was  intrigued. 
I  could  not  tell  how  they  were  getting  on.  I  would 
have  given  much  to  be  a  disembodied  spirit  so  that 
I  could  see  them  in  the  privacy  of  the  studio  and 
hear  what  they  talked  about.  I  had  not  the  smallest 
indication  on  which  to  let  my  imaginatian  work. 


Chapter  XXXIII 

TWO  or  three  days  later  Dirk  Stroeve  called  on 
me. 

"I  hear  you've  seen  Blanche,"  he  said. 

"How  on  earth  did  you  find  out?" 

"I  was  told  by  someone  who  saw  you  sitting  with 
them.     Why  didn't  you  tell  me?" 

"I  thought  it  would  only  pain  you." 

"What  do  I  care  if  it  does?  You  must  know  that 
I  want  to  hear  the  smallest  thing  about  her." 

I  waited  for  him  to  ask  me  questions. 

"What  does  she  look  like?"  he  said. 

"Absolutely  unchanged." 

"Does  she  seem  happy?" 

I  shrugged  my  shoulders. 

"How  can  I  tell?  We  were  in  a  cafe;  we  were 
playing  chess;  I  had  no  opportunity  to  speak  to  her." 

"Oh,  but  couldn't  you  tell  by  her  face?" 

I  shook  my  head.  I  could  only  repeat  that  by  no 
word,  by  no  hinted  gesture,  had  she  given  an  indi- 
cation of  her  feelings.  He  must  know  better  than 
I  how  great  were  her  powers  of  self-control.  He 
clasped  his  hands  emotionally. 

"Oh,  I'm  so  frightened.  I  know  something  is 
going  to  happen,  something  terrible,  and  I  can  do 
nothing  to  stop  it." 

"What  sort  of  thing?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  he  moaned,  seizing  his  head 
172 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  173 

with  his  hands.  "I  foresee  some  terrible  catastro- 
phe." 

Stroeve  had  always  been  excitable,  but  now  he  was 
beside  himself;  there  was  no  reasoning  with  him.  I 
thought  It  probable  enough  that  Blanche  Stroeve 
would  not  continue  to  find  life  with  Strickland  toler- 
able, but  one  of  the  falsest  of  proverbs  Is  that  you 
must  He  on  the  bed  that  you  have  made.  The  experl- 
:;nce  of  life  shows  that  people  are  constantly  doing 
things  which  must  lead  to  disaster,  and  yet  by  some 
chance  manage  to  evade  the  result  of  their  folly. 
When  Blanche  quarrelled  with  Strickland  she  had 
only  to  leave  him,  and  her  husband  was  waiting  hum- 
bly to  forgive  and  forget.  I  was  not  prepared  to 
feel  any  great  sympathy  for  her. 

"You  see,  you  don't  love  her,"  said  Stroeve. 

"After  all,  there's  nothing  to  prove  that  she  Is 
unhappy.  For  all  we  know  they  may  have  settled 
down  Into  a  most  domestic  couple." 

Stroeve  gave  me  a  look  with  his  woeful  eyes. 

"Of  course  It  doesn't  much  matter  to  you,  but 
to  me  it's  so  serious,  so  intensely  serious." 

I  was  sorry  if  I  had  seemed  impatient  or  flippant. 

"Will  you  do  something  for  me?"  asked  Stroeve. 

"Willingly." 

"Will  you  write  to  Blanche  for  me?" 

"Why  can't  you  write  yourself?" 

"I've  written  over  and  over  again.  I  didn't  expect 
her  to  answer.     I  don't  think  she  reads  the  letters." 

"You  make  no  account  of  feminine  curiosity.  Da 
you  think  she  could  resist?" 

"She  could — mine." 


174  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

I  looked  at  him  quickly.  He  lowered  his  eyes. 
That  answer  of  his  seemed  to  me  strangely  humil- 
iating. He  was  conscious  that  she  regarded  him  with 
an  indifference  so  profound  that  the  sight  of  his 
handwriting  would  have  not  the  slightest  effect  on 
her. 

"Do  you  really  believe  that  she'll  ever  come  back 
to  you?"  I  asked. 

*'I  want  her  to  know  that  if  the  worst  comes  to 
Hie  worst  she  can  count  on  me.  That's  what  I  want 
you  to  tell  her." 

I  took  a  sheet  of  paper. 

"What  is  It  exactly  you  wish  me  to  say?'* 

This  is  what  I  wrote: 

Dear  Mrs.  Stroeve, 

Dirk  wishes  me  to  tell  you  that  if  at  any  time 
you  want  him  he  will  be  grateful  for  the  opportunity 
of  being  of  service  to  you.  He  has  no  ill-feeling 
towards  you  on  account  of  anything  that  has  haP' 
pened.  His  love  for  you  is  unaltered.  You  will  always 
find  him  at  the  following  address; 


Chapter  XXXIV 

BUT  though  I  was  no  less  convinced  than 
Stroeve  that  the  connection  between  Strick- 
land and  Blanche  would  end  disastrously,  I 
did  not  expect  the  issue  to  take  the  tragic  form  it 
did.  The  summer  came,  breathless  and  sultry,  and 
even  at  night  there  was  no  coolness  to  rest  one's 
jaded  nerves.  The  sun-baked  streets  seemed  to  give 
back  the  heat  that  had  beat  down  on  them  during 
the  day,  and  the  passers-by  dragged  their  feet  along 
them  wearily.  I  had  not  seen  Strickland  for  weeks. 
Occupied  with  other  things,  I  had  ceased  to  think 
of  him  and  his  affairs.  Dirk,  with  his  vain  lamen- 
tations, had  begun  to  bore  me,  and  I  avoided  his  so- 
ciety. It  was  a  sordid  business,  and  I  was  not  in- 
clined to  trouble  myself  with  it  further. 

One  morning  I  was  working.  I  sat  in  my  py- 
jamas. My  thoughts  wandered,  and  I  thought  of 
the  sunny  beaches  of  Brittany  and  the  freshness  of 
the  sea.  By  my  side  was  the  empty  bowl  in  which 
the  concierge  had  brought  me  my  cafe  au  hit  and 
the  fragment  of  croissant  which  I  had  not  had  appe- 
tite enough  to  eat.  I  heard  the  concierge  In  the  next 
room  emptying  my  bath.  There  was  a  tinkle  at  my 
bell,  and  I  left  her  to  open  the  door.  In  a  moment  I 
heard  Stroeve's  voice  asking  if  I  was  in.  Without 
moving,  I  shouted  to  him  to  come.  He  entered  the 
room  quickly,  and  came  up  to  the  table  at  which  I 
sat. 

175 


176  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

"She's  killed  herself,"  he  said  hoarsely. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  I  cried,  startled. 

He  made  movements  with  his  lips  as  though  he 
were  speaking,  but  no  sound  Issued  from  them,  Hfe 
gibbered  like  an  idiot.  My  heart  thumped  against 
my  ribs,  and,  I  do  not  know  why,  I  flew  into  a 
temper. 

"For  God's  sake,  collect  yourself,  man,"  I  said. 
"What  on  earth  are  you  talking  about?" 

He  made  despairing  gestures  with  his  hands,  but 
still  no  words  came  from  his  mouth.  He  might  have 
been  struck  dumb.  I  do  not  know  what  came  over 
me;  I  took  him  by  the  shoulders  and  shook  him. 
Looking  back,  I  am  vexed  that  I  made  such  a  fool 
of  myself;  I  suppose  the  last  restless  nights  had 
shaken  my  nerves  more  than  I  knew. 

"Let  me  sit  down,"  he  gasped  at  length. 

I  filled  a  glass  with  St.  Galmier,  and  gave  it  to 
him  to  drink.  I  held  it  to  his  mouth  as  though 
he  were  a  child.  He  gulped  down  a  mouthful,  and 
some  of  it  was  spilt  on  his  shirt-front. 

"Who's  killed  herself?" 

I  do  not  know  why  I  asked,  for  I  knew  whom  he 
meant.     He  made  an  effort  to  collect  himself. 

"They  had  a  row  last  night.     He  went  away." 

"Is  she  dead?" 

"No;  they've  taken  her  to  the  hospital." 

"Then  what  are  you  talking  about?"  I  cried  im- 
patiently. "Why  did  you  say  she'd  killed  her- 
self?" 

"Don't  be  cross  with  me.  I  can't  tell  you  anything 
if  you  talk  to  me  like  that." 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  177 

I  clenched  my  hands,  seeking  to  control  my  Irrl- 
fation.     I  attempted  a  smile. 

*'I'm  sorry.  Take  your  time.  Don't  hurry,  there's 
a  good  fellow." 

His  round  blue  eyes  behind  the  spectacles  were 
ghastly  with  terror.  The  magnifying-glasses  he  wore 
distorted  them. 

"When  the  concierge  went  up  this  morning  to  take 
a  letter  she  could  get  no  answer  to  her  ring.  She 
heard  someone  groaning.  The  door  wasn't  locked, 
and  she  went  in.  Blanche  was  lying  on  the  bed.  She'd 
been  frightfully  sick.  There  was  a  bottle  of  oxalic 
acid  on  the  table." 

Stroeve  hid  his  face  in  his  hands  and  swayed  back- 
wards and  forwards,  groaning. 

"Was  she  conscious?" 

"Yes.  Oh,  if  you  knew  how  she's  suffering!  I 
can't  bear  it.     I  can't  bear  it." 

His  voice  rose  to  a  shriek. 

"Damn  it  all,  you  haven't  got  to  bear  it,"  I  cried 
impatiently.     "She's  got  to  bear  it." 

"How  can  you  be  so  cruel?" 

"What  have  you  done?" 

"They  sent  for  a  doctor  and  for  me,  and  they  told 
the  police.  I'd  given  the  concierge  twenty  francs, 
and  told  her  to  send  for  me  if  anything  happened." 

He  paused  a  minute,  and  I  saw  that  what  he  had 
to  tell  me  was  very  hard  to  say. 

"When  I  went  she  wouldn't  speak  to  me.  She 
told  them  to  send  me  away.  I  swore  that  I  forgave 
her  everything,  but  she  wouldn't  listen.  She  tried 
to  beat  her  head  against  the  wall.    The  doctor  told 


178  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

me  that  I  mustn't  remain  with  her.  She  kept  on 
saying,  'Send  him  away!'  I  went,  and  waited  in  the 
studio.  And  when  the  ambulance  came  and  they 
put  her  on  a  stretcher,  they  made  me  go  in  the 
kitchen  so  that  she  shouldn't  know  I  was  there." 

While  I  dressed — for  Stroeve  wished  me  to  go 
at  once  with  him  to  the  hospital — he  told  me  that 
he  had  arranged  for  his  wife  to  have  a  private  room, 
so  that  she  might  at  least  be  spared  the  sordid  pro- 
miscuity of  a  ward.  On  our  way  he  explained  to  me 
why  he  desired  my  presence;  if  she  still  refused  to 
see  him,  perhaps  she  would  see  me.  He  begged  me 
to  repeat  to  her  that  he  loved  her  still;  he  would 
reproach  her  for  nothing,  but  desired  only  to  help 
her;  he  made  no  claim  on  her,  and  on  her  recovery 
would  not  seek  to  induce  her  to  return  to  him;  she 
would  be  perfectly  free. 

But  when  we  arrived  at  the  hospital,  a  gaunt,  cheer- 
less building,  the  mere  sight  of  which  was  enough  to 
make  one's  heart  sick,  and  after  being  directed  from 
this  official  to  that,  up  endless  stairs  and  through 
long,  bare  corridors,  found  the  doctor  in  charge  of 
the  case,  we  were  told  that  the  patient  was  too  ill 
to  see  anyone  that  day.  The  doctor  was  a  little 
bearded  man  in  white,  with  an  offhand  manner.  He 
evidently  looked  upon  a  case  as  a  case,  and  anxious 
relatives  as  a  nuisance  which  must  be  treated  with 
firmness.  Moreover,  to  him  the  affair  was  common- 
place ;  it  was  just  an  hysterical  woman  who  had  quar- 
relled with  her  lover  and  taken  poison;  it  was  con- 
stantly happening.  At  first  he  thought  that  Dirk  was 
the   cause   of  the   disaster,   and  he   was  needlessly 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  179 

Hrusque  with  him.  When  I  explained  that  he  was  the 
husband,  anxious  to  forgive,  the  doctor  looked  at  him 
suddenly,  with  curious,  searching  eyes.  I  seemed  to 
see  in  them  a  hint  of  mockery;  it  was  true  that  Stroeve 
had  the  head  of  the  husband  who  is  deceived.  The 
doctor  faintly  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"There  is  no  Immediate  danger,"  he  said.  In  answer 
to  our  questioning.  "One  doesn't  know  how  much  she 
took.  It  may  be  that  she  will  get  off  with  a  fright. 
Women  are  constantly  trying  to  commit  suicide  for 
love,  but  generally  they  take  care  not  to  succeed.  It's 
generally  a  gesture  to  arouse  pity  or  terror  In  their 
lover." 

Theresas  In  his  tone  a  frigid  contempt.  It  was 
obvious  that  to  him  Blanche  Stroeve  was  only  a  unit 
to  be  added  to  the  statistical  list  of  attempted  suicides 
in  the  city  of  Paris  during  the  current  year.  He  was 
busy,  and  could  waste  no  more  time  on  us.  He  told 
us  that  If  we  came  at  a  certain  hour  next  day,  should 
Blanche  be  better.  It  might  be  possible  for  her  hus- 
band to  see  her. 


Chapter  XXXV 

I  SCARCELY  know  how  we  got  through  that  day. 
Stroeve  could  not  bear  to  be  alone,  and  I  exhaust- 
ed myself  in  efforts  to  distract  him.  I  took  him 
to  the  Louvre,  and  he  pretended  to  look  at  pictures, 
but  I  saw  that  his  thoughts  were  constantly  with  his 
wife.  I  forced  him  to  eat,  and  after  luncheon  I  in- 
duced him  to  lie  down,  but  he  could  not  sleep.  He 
accepted  willingly  my  invitation  to  remain  for  a  few 
days  in  my  apartment.  I  gave  him  books  to  read, 
but  after  a  page  or  two  he  would  put  the  book  down 
and  stare  miserably  into  space.  During  the  evening 
we  played  innumerable  games  of  piquet,  and  bravely, 
not  to  disappoint  my  efforts,  he  tried  to  appear  in- 
terested. Finally  I  gave  him  a  draught,  and  he  sank 
into  uneasy  slumber. 

When  we  went  again  to  the  hospital  we  saw  a  nurs- 
ing sister.  She  told  us  that  Blanche  seemed  a  little 
better,  and  she  went  in  to  ask  if  she  would  see  her 
husband.  We  heard  voices  in  the  room  in  which  she 
lay,  and  presently  the  nurse  returned  to  say  that  the 
patient  refused  to  see  anyone.  We  had  told  her  that 
if  she  refused  to  see  Dirk  the  nurse  was  to  ask  if  she 
would  see  me,  but  this  she  refused  also.  Dirk's  lips 
trembled. 

"I  dare  not  Insist,"  said  the  nurse.  "She  is  too  ill. 
Perhaps  in  a  day  or  two  she  may  change  her  mind." 

"Is  there  anyone  else  she  wants  to  see?"  asked 
Dirk,  in  a  voice  so  low  it  was  almost  a  whisper. 

ISO 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  181 

"She  says  she  only  wants  to  be  left  in  peace." 

Dirk's  hands  moved  strangely,  as  though  they  had 
nothing  to  do  with  his  body,  with  a  movement  of  their 
own. 

"Will  you  tell  her  that  if  there  is  anyone  else  she 
wishes  to  see  I  will  bring  him?  I  only  want  her  to  be 
happy." 

The  nurse  looked  at  him  with  her  calm,  kind  eyes, 
which  had  seen  all  the  horror  and  pain  of  the  world, 
and  yet,  filled  with  the  vision  of  a  world  without  sin, 
remained  serene. 

"I  will  tell  her  when  she  is  a  little  calmer." 

Dirk,  filled  with  compassion,  begged  her  to  take 
the  message  at  once. 

"It  may  cure  her.    I  beseech  you  to  ask  her  now." 

With  a  faint  smile  of  pity,  the  nurse  went  back  into 
the  room.  We  heard  her  low  voice,  and  then,  in  a 
voice  I  did  not  recognise  the  answer : 

"No.    No.     No." 

The  nurse  came  out  again  and  shook  her  head, 

"Was  that  she  who  spoke  then?"  I  asked.  "Her 
voice  sounded  so  strange." 

"It  appears  that  her  vocal  cords  have  been  burnt 
by  the  acid." 

Dirk  gave  a  low  cry  of  distress.  I  asked  him  to  go 
on  and  wait  for  me  at  the  entrance,  for  I  wanted  to 
say  something  to  the  nurse.  He  did  not  ask  what  It 
was,  but  went  silently.  He  seemed  to  have  lost  all 
power  of  will ;  he  was  like  an  obedient  child. 

"Has  she  told  you  why  she  did  it?"  I  asked. 

"No.  She  won't  speak.  She  lies  on  her  back  quite 
(guietly.    She  doesn't  move  for  hours  at  a  time.    But 


182  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

she  cries  always.  Her  pillow  is  all  wet.  She's  too 
weak  to  use  a  handkerchief,  and  the  tears  just  run 
down  her  face." 

It  gave  me  a  sudden  wrench  of  the  heart-strings. 
I  could  have  killed  Strickland  then,  and  I  knew  that 
my  voice  was  trembling  when  I  bade  the  nurse  good- 
bye. 

I  found  Dirk  waiting  for  me  on  the  steps.  He 
seemed  to  see  nothing,  and  did  not  notice  that  I  had 
joined  him  till  I  touched  him  on  the  arm.  We  walked 
along  in  silence.  I  tried  to  imagine  what  had  hap- 
pened to  drive  the  poor  creature  to  that  dreadful 
step.  I  presumed  that  Strickland  knew  what  had  hap- 
pened, for  someone  must  have  been  to  see  him  from 
the  police,  and  he  must  have  made  his  statement.  I 
did  not  know  where  he  was.  I  supposed  he  had  gone 
back  to  the  shabby  attic  which  served  him  as  a  studio* 
It  was  curious  that  she  should  not  wish  to  see  him. 
Perhaps  she  refused  to  have  him  sent  for  because  shei 
knew  he  would  refuse  to  come.  I  wondered  what  art 
abyss  of  cruelty  she  must  have  looked  into  that  in  hor- 
ror she  refused  to  live. 


Chapter  XXXVI 

THE  next  week  was  dreadful.  Stroeve  went 
twice  a  day  to  the  hospital  to  enquire  after 
his  wife,  who  still  declined  to  see  him;  and 
came  away  at  first  relieved  and  hopeful  because 
he  was  told  that  she  seemed  to  be  growing  better, 
and  then  in  despair  because,  the  complication  which 
the  doctor  had  feared  having  ensued,  recovery  was 
impossible.  The  nurse  was  pitiful  to  his  distress, 
but  she  had  little  to  say  that  could  console  him.  The 
poor  woman  lay  quite  still,  refusing  to  speak,  with 
her  eyes  intent,  as  though  she  watched  for  the  com- 
ing of  death.  It  could  now  be  only  the  question, 
of  a  day  or  two ;  and  when,  late  one  evening,  Stroeve 
came  to  see  me  I  knew  it  was  to  tell  me  she  was 
dead.  He  was  absolutely  exhausted.  His  volubility 
had  left  him  at  last,  and  he  sank  down  wearily  on 
my  sofa.  I  felt  that  no  words  of  condolence  availed, 
and  I  let  him  lie  there  quietly.  I  feared  he  would 
think  it  heartless  if  I  read,  so  I  sat  by  the  window, 
smoking  a  pipe,  till  he  felt  inclined  to  speak. 

"You've  been  very  kind  to  me,"  he  said  at  last. 
"Everyone's  been  very  kind." 

"Nonsense,"  I  said,  a  little  embarrassed. 

"At  the  hospital  they  told  me  I  might  wait.  They 
gave  me  a  chair,  and  I  sat  outside  the  door.  When 
she  became  unconscious  they  said  I  might  go  in. 
Her  mouth  and  chin  were  all  burnt  by  the  acid. 
It  was  awful  to  see  her  lovely  skin  all  wounded.    She 

183 


18i  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

died  very  peacefully,  so  that  I  didn't  know  she  was 
dead  till  the  sister  told  me." 

He  was  too  tired  to  weep.  He  lay  on  his  back 
limply,  as  though  all  the  strength  had  gone  out 
of  his  limbs,  and  presently  I  saw  that  he  had  fallen 
asleep.  It  was  the  first  natural  sleep  he  had  had 
for  a  week.  Nature,  sometimes  so  cruel,  is  some- 
times merciful.  I  covered  him  and  turned  down 
the  light.  In  the  morning  when  I  awoke  he  was 
still  asleep.  He  had  not  moved.  His  gold-rimmed 
spectacles  were  still  on  his  nose. 


Chapter  XXXVII 

THE  circumstances  of  Blanche  Stroeve's  death 
necessitated  all  manner  of  dreadful  formalities, 
but  at  last  we  were  allowed  to  bury  her.  Dirk 
and  I  alone  followed  the  hearse  to  the  cemetery.  We 
went  at  a  foot-pace,  but  on  the  way  back  we  trotted, 
and  there  was  something  to  my  mind  singularly  hor- 
rible in  the  way  the  driver  of  the  hearse  whipped 
up  his  horses.  It  seemed  to  dismiss  the  dead  with 
a  shrug  of  the  shoulders.  Now  and  then  I  caught 
sight  of  the  swaying  hearse  in  front  of  us,  and  our 
own  driver  urged  his  pair  so  that  we  might  not  re- 
main behind.  I  felt  in  myself,  too,  the  desire  to 
get  the  whole  thing  out  of  my  mind.  I  was  begin- 
ning to  be  bored  with  a  tragedy  that  did  not  really 
concern  me,  and  pretending  to  myself  that  I  spoke 
in  order  to  distract  Stroeve,  I  turned  with  relief  to 
other  subjects. 

"Don't  you  think  you'd  better  go  away  for  a  bit?" 
I  said.  "There  can  be  no  object  in  your  staying  in 
Paris  now." 

He  did  not  answer,  but  I  went  on  ruthlessly: 

"Have  you  made  any  plans  for  the  immediate 
future?" 

"No." 

"You  must  try  and  gather  together  the  threads 
again.  Why  don't  you  go  down  to  Italy  and  start 
working?" 

Again  he  made  no  reply,  but  the  driver  of  out; 
185 


18'Q  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

carriage  came  to  my  rescue.  Slackening  his  pace  for 
a  moment,  he  leaned  over  and  spoke.  I  could  not 
hear  what  he  said,  so  I  put  my  head  out  of  the  win- 
dow; he  wanted  to  know  where  we  wished  to  be 
set  down.     I  told  him  to  wait  a  minute. 

"You'd  better  come  and  have  lunch  with  me,"  I 
said  to  Dirk.  "I'll  tell  him  to  drop  us  in  the  Place 
Pigalle." 

"I'd  rather  not.     I  want  to  go  to  the  studio." 

I  hesitated  a  moment. 

"Would  you  like  me  to  come  with  you?"  I  asked 
then. 

"No;  I  should  prefer  to  be  alone." 

"All  right." 

I  gave  the  driver  the  necessary  direction,  and  in 
renewed  silence  we  drove  on.  Dirk  had  not  been 
to  the  studio  since  the  wretched  morning  on  which 
they  had  taken  Blanche  to  the  hospital.  I  was  glad 
he  did  not  want  me  to  accompany  him,  and  when  I 
left  him  at  the  door  I  walked  away  with  relief.  I 
took  a  new  pleasure  in  the  streets  of  Paris,  and 
I  looked  with  smiling  eyes  at  the  people  who  hur- 
ried to  and  fro.  The  day  was  fine  and  sunny,  and 
I  felt  in  myself  a  more  acute  delight  in  life.  I  could 
not  help  It;  I  put  Stroeve  and  his  sorrows  out  of 
my  mind.    I  wanted  to  enjoy. 


Chapter  XXXVIII 

I  DID  not  see  him  again  for  nearly  a  week.  Then 
he  fetched  me  soon  after  seven  one  evening  and 
took  me  out  to  dinner.  He  was  dressed  in  the 
deepest  mourning,  and  on  his  bowler  was  a  broad 
black  band.  He  had  even  a  black  border  to  his 
handkerchief.  His  garb  of  woe  suggested  that  he 
had  lost  in  one  catastrophe  every  relation  he  had  in 
the  world,  even  to  cousins  by  marriage  twice  re- 
moved. His  plumpness  and  his  red,  fat  cheeks  made 
his  mourning  not  a  little  incongruous.  It  was  cruel 
that  his  extreme  unhappiness  should  have  in  it  some- 
thing of  buffoonery. 

He  told  me  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  go  away, 
though  not  to  Italy,  as  I  had  suggested,  but  to  Hol- 
land. 

"I'm  starting  to-morrow.  This  is  perhaps  the 
last  time  we  shall  ever  meet." 

I  made  an  appropriate  rejoinder,  and  he  smiled 
wanly. 

"I  haven't  been  home  for  five  years.  I  think  I'd 
forgotten  it  all;  I  seemed  to  have  come  so  far  away 
from  my  father's  house  that  I  was  shy  at  the  idea 
of  revisiting  it;  but  now  I  feel  It's  my  only  refuge." 

He  was  sore  and  bruised,  and  his  thoughts  went 
back  to  the  tenderness  of  his  mother's  love.  The 
ridicule  he  had  endured  for  years  seemed  now  to 
weigh  him  down,  and  the  final  blow  of  Blanche's 
treachery  had  robbed  him  of  the  resiliency  whIcK 

187 


188  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

had  made  him  take  it  so  gaily.  He  could  no  longer 
laugh  with  those  who  laughed  at  him.  He  was  an 
outcast.  He  told  me  of  his  childhood  in  the  tidy 
brick  house,  and  of  his  mother's  passionate  orderli- 
ness. Her  kitchen  was  a  miracle  of  clean  bright- 
ness. Everything  was  always  in  its  place,  and  no- 
where could  you  see  a  speck  of  dust.  Cleanliness, 
indeed,  was  a  mania  with  her.  I  saw  a  neat  little 
old  woman,  with  cheeks  like  apples,  toiling  away 
from  morning  to  night,  through  the  long  years,  to 
keep  her  house  trim  and  spruce.  His  father  was 
a  spare  old  man,  his  hands  gnarled  after  the  work 
of  a  lifetime,  silent  and  upright;  in  the  evening  he 
read  the  paper  aloud,  while  his  wife  and  daughter 
(now  married  to  the  captain  of  a  fishing  smack), 
unwilling  to  lose  a  moment,  bent  over  their  sewing. 
Nothing  ever  happened  in  that  little  town,  left  be- 
hind by  the  advance  of  civilisation,  and  one  year 
followed  the  next  till  death  came,  like  a  friend,  to 
give  rest  to  those  who  had  laboured  so  diligently. 

"My  father  wished  me  to  become  a  carpenter  like 
himself.  For  five  generations  we've  carried  on  the 
same  trade,  from  father  to  son.  Perhaps  that  is 
the  wisdom  of  life,  to  tread  In  your  father's  steps, 
and  look  neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left.  When 
I  was  a  little  boy  I  said  I  would  marry  the  daugh- 
ter of  the  harness-maker  who  lived  next  door.  She 
was  a  little  girl  with  blue  eyes  and  a  flaxen  pigtail. 
She  would  have  kept  my  house  like  a  new  pin,  and 
I  should  have  had  a  son  to  carry  on  the  business  after 
me. 

Stroeve    sighed    a    little    and    was    silent.      His 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  189 

thoughts  dwelt  among  pictures  of  what  might  have 
been,  and  the  safety  of  the  life  he  had  refused  filled 
him  with  longing. 

"The  world  is  hard  and  cruel.  We  are  here 
none  knows  why,  and  we  go  none  knows  whither. 
We  must  be  very  humble.  We  must  see  the  beauty 
of  quietness.  We  must  go  through  life  so  incon- 
spicuously that  Fate  does  not  notice  us.  And  let  us 
seek  the  love  of  simple,  ignorant  people.  Their 
ignorance  is  better  than  all  our  knowledge.  Let  us 
be  silent,  content  in  our  little  corner,  meek  and  gentle 
like  them.     That  is  the  wisdom  of  life." 

To  me  it  was  his  broken  spirit  that  expressed  itself, 
and  I  rebelled  against  his  renunciation.  But  I  kept 
my  own  counsel. 

"What  made  you  think  of  being  a  painter?"  I 
asked. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"It  happened  that  I  had  a  knack  for  drawing. 
I  got  prizes  for  it  at  school.  My  poor  mother  was 
very  proud  of  my  gift,  and  she  gave  me  a  box  of 
water-colours  as  a  present.  She  showed  my  sketches 
to  the  pastor  and  the  doctor  and  the  judge.  And 
they  sent  me  to  Amsterdam  to  try  for  a  scholar- 
ship, and  I  won  it.  Poor  soul,  she  was  so  proud; 
and  though  it  nearly  broke  her  heart  to  part  from 
me,  she  smiled,  and  would  not  show  me  her  grief. 
She  was  pleased  that  her  son  should  be  an  artist. 
They  pinched  and  saved  so  that  I  should  have  enough 
to  live  on,  and  when  my  first  picture  was  exhibited 
they  came  to  Amsterdam  to  see  it,  my  father  and 
mother  and  my  sister,  and  my  mother  cried  when 


190  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

she  looked  at  It."  His  kind  eyes  glistened.  "And 
now  on  every  wall  of  the  old  house  there  is  one  of 
my  pictures  in  a  beautiful  gold  frame." 

He  glowed  with  happy  pride.  I  thought  of  those 
cold  scenes  of  his,  with  their  picturesque  peasants 
and  cypresses  and  olive-trees.  They  must  look  queer 
in  their  garish  frames  on  the  walls  of  the  peasant 
house. 

"The  dear  soul  thought  she  was  doing  a  wonder- 
ful thing  for  me  when  she  made  me  an  artist,  but 
perhaps,  after  all,  it  would  have  been  better  for  me 
if  my  father's  will  had  prevailed  and  I  were  now 
but  an  honest  carpenter." 

"Now  that  you  know  what  art  can  offer,  would 
you  change  your  life?  Would  you  have  missed  all 
the  delight  it  has  given  you?" 

"Art  is  the  greatest  thing  In  the  world,"  he  an« 
swered,  after  a  pause. 

He  looked  at  me  for  a  minute  reflectively;  he 
seemed  to  hesitate;  then  he  said: 

"Did  you  know  that  I  had  been  to  see  Strickland?" 

"You?" 

I  was  astonished.  I  should  have  thought  he  could 
not  bear  to  set  eyes  on  him.     Stroeve  smiled  faintly. 

"You  know  already  that  I  have  no  proper  pride." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

He  told  me  a  singular  story. 


Chapter  XXXIX 

WHEN  I  left  him,  after  we  had  burled  poor 
Blanche,  Stroeve  walked  into  the  house 
with  a  heavy  heart.  Something  impelled 
him  to  go  to  the  studio,  some  obscure  desire  for  self- 
torture,  and  yet  he  dreaded  the  anguish  that  he 
foresaw.  He  dragged  himself  up  the  &tairs;  his 
feet  seemed  unwilling  to  carry  him ;  and  outside  the 
door  he  lingered  for  a  long  time,  trying  to  summon 
up  courage  to  go  in.  He  felt  horribly  sick.  He  had 
an  impulse  to  run  down  the  stairs  after  me  and  beg 
me  to  go  in  with  him;  he  had  a  feeling  that  there 
was  somebody  in  the  studio.  He  remembered  how, 
often  he  had  waited  for  a  minute  or  two  on  the 
landing  to  get  his  breath  after  the  ascent,  and  how 
absurdly  his  impatience  to  see  Blanche  had  taken  Tt 
away  again.  To  see  her  was  a  delight  that  never 
staled,  and  even  though  he  had  not  been  out  an 
hour  he  was  as  excited  at  the  prospect  as  if  they 
had  been  parted  for  a  month.  Suddenly  he  could 
not  believe  that  she  was  dead.  What  had  hap- 
pened could  only  be  a  dream,  a  frightful  dream; 
and  when  he  turned  the  key  and  opened  the  door, 
he  would  see  her  bending  slightly  over  the  table  In 
the  gracious  attitude  of  the  woman  In  Chardln's 
Benedicite,  which  always  seemed  to  him  so  exquisite. 
Hurriedly  he  took  the  key  out  of  his  pocket,  opened, 
and  walked  In. 

191 


192  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

The  apartment  had  no  look  of  desertion.  His 
wife's  tidiness  was  one  of  the  traits  whlcli  had  so 
much  pleased  him;  his  own  upbringing  had  given 
him  a  tender  sympathy  for  the  delight  in  orderliness; 
and  when  he  had  seen  her  instinctive  desire  to  put 
each  thing  in  its  appointed  place  it  had  given  him 
a  little  warm  feeling  in  his  heart.  The  bedroom 
looked  as  though  she  had  just  left  it:  the  brushes 
were  neatly  placed  on  the  toilet-table,  one  on  each 
side  of  the  comb;  someone  had  smoothed  down  the 
bed  on  which  she  had  spent  her  last  night  in  the 
studio;  and  her  nightdress  in  a  little  case  lay  on  the 
pillow.  It  was  impossible  to  believe  that  she  would 
never  come  into  that  room  again. 

But  he  felt  thirsty,  and  went  Into  the  kitchen  to 
get  himself  some  water.  Here,  too,  was  order.  On 
a  rack  were  the  plates  that  she  had  used  for  dinner 
on  the  night  of  her  quarrel  with  Strickland,  and  they 
had  been  carefully  washed.  The  knives  and  forks 
Avere  put  away  in  a  drawer.  Under  a  cover  were 
the  remains  of  a  piece  of  cheese,  and  in  a  tin  box 
was  a  crust  of  bread.  She  had  done  her  marketing 
from  day  to  day,  buying  only  what  was  strictly  need- 
ful, so  that  nothing  was  left  over  from  one  day  to 
the  next.  Stroeve  knew  from  the  enquiries  made 
by  the  police  that  Strickland  had  walked  out  of  the 
house  immediately  after  dinner,  and  the  fact  that 
Blanche  had  washed  up  the  things  as  usual  gave  him 
a  little  thrill  of  horror.  Her  methodlcalness  made 
her  suicide  more  deliberate.  Her  self-possession  was 
frightening.  A  sudden  pang  seized  him,  and  hi$ 
knees  felt  so  weak  that  he  almost  fell.     He  W£nt 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  198 

back  Into  the  bedroom  and  threw  himself  on  the 
bed.     He  cried  out  her  name. 

'•Blanche.     Blanche." 

The  thought  of  her  suffering  was  Intolerable.  He 
had  a  sudden  vision  of  her  standing  In  the  kitchen — 
It  was  hardly  larger  than  a  cupboard — washing  the 
plates  and  glasses,  the  forks  and  spoons,  giving  the 
knives  a  rapid  polish  on  the  knife-board;  and  then 
putting  everything  away,  giving  the  sink  a  scrub, 
and  hanging  the  dish-cloth  up  to  dry — It  was  there 
still,  a  gray  torn  rag;  then  looking  round  to  see 
that  everything  was  clean  and  nice.  He  saw  her 
roll  down  her  sleeves  and  remove  her  apron — the 
apron  hung  on  a  peg  behind  the  door — and  take 
the  bottle  of  oxalic  acid  and  go  with  It  Into  the 
bedroom. 

The  agony  of  It  drove  him  up  from  the  bed  and 
out  of  the  room.  He  went  into  the  studio.  It  was 
dark,  for  the  curtains  had  been  drawn  over  the  great 
window,  and  he  pulled  them  quickly  back;  but  a 
sob  broke  from  him  as  with  a  rapid  glance  he  tools 
in  the  place  where  he  had  been  so  happy.  Nothing 
was  changed  here,  either.  Strickland  was  indiffer- 
ent to  his  surroundings,  and  he  had  lived  in  the 
other's  studio  without  thinking  of  altering  a  thing. 
It  was  deliberately  artistic.  It  represented  Stroeve's 
idea  of  the  proper  environment  for  an  artist.  There 
were  bits  of  old  brocade  on  the  walls,  and  the  piano 
was  covered  with  a  piece  of  silk,  beautiful  and  tar- 
nished; in  one  corner  was  a  copy  of  the  Venus 
of  Milo,  and  In  another  of  the  Venus  of  the  Medici. 
Here  and  there  was  an  Italian  cabinet  surmounted 


194  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

with  Delft,  and  here  and  there  a  bas-relief.  In  a 
handsome  gold  frame  was  a  copy  of  Velasquez'  Inno- 
cent X.,  that  Stroeve  had  made  in  Rome,  and  placed 
so  as  to  make  the  most  of  their  decorative  effect 
were  a  number  of  Stroeve's  pictures,  all  in  splendid 
frames.  Stroeve  had  always  been  very  proud  of  his 
taste.  He  had  never  lost  his  appreciation  for  the 
romantic  atmosphere  of  a  studio,  and  though  now 
the  sight  of  it  was  like  a  stab  in  his  heart,  without 
thinking  what  he  was  at,  he  changed  slightly  the 
position  of  a  Louis  XV.  table  which  was  one  of 
his  treasures.  Suddenly  he  caught  sight  of  a  canvas 
with  its  face  to  the  wall.  It  was  a  much  larger 
one  than  he  himself  was  in  the  habit  of  using,  and 
he  wondered  what  It  did  there.  He  went  over  to 
it  and  leaned  It  towards  him  so  that  he  could  see 
the  painting.  It  was  a  nude.  His  heart  began 
to  beat  quickly,  for  he  guessed  at  once  that  it  was 
one  of  Strickland's  pictures.  He  flung  it  back 
against  the  wall  angrily^ — ^what  did  he  mean  by  leav- 
ing it  there? — but  his  movement  caused  it  to  fall, 
face  downwards,  on  the  ground.  No  matter  whose 
the  picture,  he  could  not  leave  it  there  in  the  dust, 
and  he  raised  It;  but  then  curiosity  got  the  better 
of  him.  He  thought  he  would  like  to  have  a  proper 
look  at  it,  so  he  brought  it  along  and  set  It  on  the 
easel.  Then  he  stood  back  in  order  to  see  It  at 
his  ease. 

He  gave  a  gasp.  It  was  the  picture  of  a  woman 
lying  on  a  sofa,  with  one  arm  beneath  her  head 
and  the  other  along  her  body;  one  knee  was  raised, 
and  the  other  leg  was  stretched  out.    The  pose  wa» 


THE  MOON  AND   SIXPENCE  19$ 

classic.  Stroeve's  head  swam.  It  was  Blanche. 
Grief  and  jealousy  and  rage  seized  him,  and  he  cried 
out  hoarsely;  he  was  inarticulate;  he  clenched  his 
fists  and  raised  them  threateningly  at  an  invisible 
enemy.  He  screamed  at  the  top  of  his  voice.  He 
was  beside  himself.  He  could  not  bear  it.  That 
was  too  much.  He  looked  round  wildly  for  some 
instrument;  he  wanted  to  hack  the  picture  to  pieces; 
it  should  not  exist  another  minute.  He  could  see 
nothing  that  would  serve  his  purpose;  he  rummaged 
about  his  painting  things;  somehow  he  could  not 
find  a  thing;  he  was  frantic.  At  last  he  came 
upon  what  he  sought,  a  large  scraper,  and  he 
pounced  on  it  with  a  cry  of  triumph.  He  seized 
it  as  though  it  were  a  dagger,  and  ran  to  the 
picture. 

As  Stroeve  told  me  this  he  became  as  excited  as 
iwhen  the  incident  occurred,  and  he  took  hold  of  a 
dinner-knife  on  the  table  between  us,  and  brandished 
it.  He  lifted  his  arm  as  though  to  strike,  and  then, 
opening  his  hand,  let  it  fall  with  a  clatter  to  the 
ground.  He  looked  at  me  with  a  tremulous  smile. 
He  did  not  speak. 

"Fire  away,"  I  said. 

*'I  don't  know  what  happened  to  me.  I  was  just 
going  to  make  a  great  hole  in  the  picture,  I  had 
my  arm  all  ready  for  the  blow,  when  suddenly  I 
seemed  to  see  it." 

"See  what?" 

"The  picture.  It  was  a  work  of  art.  I  couldn't 
touch  it.      I  was  afraid." 

Stroeve   was   silent   again,   and  he   stared   at  me 


196  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

with  his  mouth  open  and  his  round  blue  eyes  start- 
ing out  of  his  head. 

*'It  was  a  great,  a  wonderful  picture.  I  wa8 
seized  with  awe.  I  had  nearly  committed  a  dreadful 
crime.  I  moved  a  little  to  see  it  better,  and  my 
foot  knocked  against  the  scraper.     I  shuddered." 

I  really  felt  something  of  the  emotion  that  had 
caught  him.  I  was  strangely  impressed.  It  was 
as  though  I  were  suddenly  transported  into  a  world 
in  which  the  values  were  changed.  I  stood  by,  at 
a  loss,  like  a  stranger  in  a  land  where  the  reac- 
tions of  man  to  familiar  things  are  all  different 
from  those  he  has  known.  Stroeve  tried  to  talk  to 
me  about  the  picture,  but  he  was  incoherent,  and  I 
had  to  guess  at  what  he  meant.  Strickland  had  burst 
the  bonds  that  hitherto  had  held  him.  He  had 
found,  not  himself,  as  the  phrase  goes,  but  a  new 
soul  with  unsuspected  powers.  It  was  not  only  the 
bold  simplification  of  the  drawing  which  showed  so 
rich  and  so  singular  a  personality;  it  was  not  only 
the  painting,  though  the  flesh  was  painted  with  a 
passionate  sensuality  which  had  in  it  something  mi- 
raculous; it  was  not  only  the  solidity,  so  that  you 
felt  extraordinarily  the  weight  of  the  body;  there 
was  also  a  spirituality,  troubling  and  new,  which  led 
the  imagination  along  unsuspected  ways,  and  sug- 
gested dim  empty  spaces,  lit  only  by  the  eternal  stars, 
where  the  soul,  all  naked,  adventured  fearful  to  the 
discovery  of  new  mysteries. 

If  I  am  rhetorical  it  is  because  Stroeve  was  rhetor- 
ical. (Do  we  not  know  that  man  in  moments  of 
emotion  expresses  himself  naturally  in  the  terms  of 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  197 

a  novelette?)  Stroeve  was  trying  to  express  a  feel- 
ing which  he  had  never  known  before,  and  he  did 
not  know  how  to  put  it  into  common  terms.  He 
was  like  the  mystic  seeking  to  describe  the  ineffable. 
But  one  fact  he  made  clear  to  me;  people  talk  of 
beauty  lightly,  and  having  no  feeling  for  words,  they 
use  that  one  carelessly,  so  that  it  loses  its  force; 
and  the  thing  it  stands  for,  sharing  its  name  with 
a  hundred  trivial  objects,  is  deprived  of  dignity. 
They  call  beautiful  a  dress,  a  dog,  a  sermon;  and 
when  they  are  face  to  face  with  Beauty  cannot  rec- 
ognise it.  The  false  emphasis  with  which  they  try 
to  deck  their  worthless  thoughts  blunts  their  suscep- 
tibilities. Like  the  charlatan  who  counterfeits  a 
spiritual  force  he  has  sometimes  felt,  they  lose  the 
power  they  have  abused.  But  Stroeve,  the  uncon- 
querable buffoon,  had  a  love  and  an  understanding 
of  beauty  which  were  as  honest  and  sincere  as  was 
his  own  sincere  and  honest  soul.  It  meant  to  him 
what  God  means  to  the  believer,  and  when  he  saw 
it  he  was  afraid. 

"What  did  you  say  to  Strickland  when  you  saw 
him?" 

"I  asked  him  to  come  with  me  to  Holland." 

I  was  dumbfounded.  I  could  only  look  at  Stroeve 
in  stupid  amazement. 

"We  both  loved  Blanche.  There  would  have 
been  room  for  him  In  my  mother's  house.  I  think 
the  company  of  poor,  simple  people  would  have  done 
his  soul  a  great  good.  I  think  he  might  have  learnt 
from  them  something  that  would  be  very  useful  to 
him." 


198  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"He  smiled  a  little.  I  suppose  he  thought  nifB 
very  silly.     He  said  he  had  other  fish  to  fry." 

I  could  have  wished  that  Strickland  had  used 
some  other  phrase  to  indicate  his  refusal. 

"He  gave  me  the  picture  of  Blanche." 

I  wondered  why  Strickland  had  done  that.  But 
I  made  no  remark,  and  for  some  time  we  kept  si- 
lence. 

"What  have  you  done  with  all  your  things?"  I 
said  at  last. 

"I  got  a  Jew  In,  and  he  gave  me  a  round  sum 
for  the  lot.  I'm  taking  my  pictures  home  with  me. 
Beside  them  I  own  nothing  in  the  world  now  but  a 
box  of  clothes  and  a  few  books." 

"I'm  glad  you're  going  home,"  I  said. 

I  felt  that  his  chance  was  to  put  all  the  past 
behind  him.  I  hoped  that  the  grief  which  now 
seemed  intolerable  would  be  softened  by  the  lapse 
of  time,  and  a  merciful  forgetfulness  would  help  him 
to  take  up  once  more  the  burden  of  life.  He  was 
young  still,  and  in  a  few  years  he  would  look  back 
on  all  his  misery  with  a  sadness  in  which  there 
would  be  something  not  unpleasurable.  Sooner  or 
later  he  would  marry  some  honest  soul  in  Holland, 
and  I  felt  sure  he  would  be  happy.  I  smiled  at  the 
thought  of  the  vast  number  of  bad  pictures  he  would 
paint  before  he  died. 

Next  day  I  saw  him  off  for  Amsterdam. 


Chapter  XL 

FOR  the  next  month,  occupied  witK  my  own  af- 
fairs, I  saw  no  one  connected  with  this  la- 
mentable business,  and  my  mind  ceased  to  be 
occupied  with  it.  But  one  day,  when  I  was  walking 
along,  bent  on  some  errand,  I  passed  Charles 
Strickland.  The  sight  of  him  brought  back  to  me 
all  the  horror  which  I  was  not  unwilling  to  forget, 
and  I  felt  in  me  a  sudden  repulsion  for  the  cause 
of  it.  Nodding,  for  it  would  have  been  childish  to 
cut  him,  I  walked  on  quickly;  but  in  a  minute  I  felt 
a  hand  on  my  shoulder. 

"You're  in  a  great  hurry,"  he  said  cordially. 

It  was  characteristic  of  him  to  display  geniality 
with  anyone  who  showed  a  disinclination  to  meet 
him,  and  the  coolness  of  my  greeting  can  have  left 
him  in  little  doubt  of  that. 

"I  am,"  I  answered  briefly. 

"I'll  walk  along  with  you,"  he  said. 

"Why?"  I  asked. 

"For  the  pleasure  of  your  society." 

I  did  not  answer,  and  he  walked  by  my  side  si- 
lently. We  continued  thus  for  perhaps  a  quarter 
of  a  mile.  I  began  to  feel  a  little  ridiculous.  At 
last  we  passed  a  stationer's,  and  it  occurred  to  me 
that  I  might  as  well  buy  some  paper.  It  would  be 
an  excuse  to  be  rid  of  him. 

"I'm  going  in  here,"  I  said.     "Good-bye.'* 

"I'll  wait  for  you." 

199 


200  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

I  shrugged  my  shoulders,  and  went  Into  the  shop. 
I  reflected  that  French  paper  was  bad,  and  that^ 
foiled  of  my  purpose,  I  need  not  burden  myself  with 
a  purchase  that  I  did  not  need.  I  asked  for  some- 
thing I  knew  could  not  be  provided,  and  In  a  min- 
ute came  out  into  the  street. 

"Did  you  get  what  you  wanted?"  he  asked. 

"No." 

We  walked  on  In  silence,  and  then  came  to  a  place 
where  several  streets  met.     I  stopped  at  the  curb. 

"Which  way  do  you  go?"  I  enquired. 

"Your  way,"  he  smiled. 

"I'm  going  home." 

"I'll  come  along  with  you  and  smoke  a  pipe." 

"You  might  wait  for  an  invitation,"  I  retorted 
'frigidly. 

"I  would  if  I  thought  there  was  any  chance  of 
getting  one." 

"Do  you  see  that  wall  In  front  of  you?"  I  said, 
pointing. 

"Yes." 

"In  that  case  I  should  have  thought  you  could 
see  also  that  I  don't  want  your  company." 

"I  vaguely  suspected  It,  I  confess." 

I  could  not  help  a  chuckle.  It  Is  one  of  the  defects 
of  my  character  that  I  cannot  altogether  dislike  any- 
one who  makes  me  laugh.  But  I  pulled  myself  to- 
gether. 

"I  think  you're  detestable.  You're  the  most  loath- 
some beast  that  It's  ever  been  my  misfortune  to  meet. 
Why  do  you  seek  the  society  of  someone  who  hates 
and  despises  you?" 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  201 

**My  dear  fellow,  what  the  hell  do  you  suppose  I 
care  what  you  think  of  me?" 

"Damn  it  all,"  I  said,  more  violently  because  I 
had  an  inkling  my  motive  was  none  too  creditable, 
"I  don't  want  to  know  you." 

"Are  you  afraid  I  shall  corrupt  you?" 

His  tone  made  me  feel  not  a  little  ridiculous.  I 
knew  that  he  was  looking  at  me  sideways,  with  a 
sardonic  smile. 

"I  suppose  you  are  hard  up,"  I  remarked  inso« 
lently. 

"I  should  be  a  damned  fool  if  I  thought  I  had 
any  chance  of  borrowing  money  from  you." 

"You've  come  down  in  the  world  if  you  can  bring 
yourself  to  flatter." 

He  grinned. 

"You'll  never  really  dislike  me  so  long  as  I  give 
you  the  opportunity  to  get  off  a  good  thing  now 
and  then." 

I  had  to  bite  my  lip  to  prevent  myself  from  laugh- 
ing. What  he  said  had  a  hateful  truth  in  it,  and 
another  defect  of  my  character  is  that  I  enjoy  the 
company  of  those,  however  depraved,  who  can  give 
me  a  Roland  for  my  Olive'r.  I  began  to  feel  that 
my  abhorrence  for  Strickland  could  only  be  sus- 
tained by  an  effort  on  my  part.  I  recognised  my 
moral  weakness,  but  saw  that  my  disapprobation  had 
in  it  already  something  of  a  pose;  and  I  knew  that 
if  I  felt  it,  his  own  keen  instinct  had  discovered  it, 
too.  He  was  certainly  laughing  at  me  up  his  sleeve. 
I  left  him  the  last  word,  and  sought  refuge  in  $ 
shrug  of  the  shoulders  and  taciturnity. 


Chapter  XLI 

WE  arrived  at  the  house  In  which  I  lived. 
I  would  not  ask  him  to  come  in  with  me, 
but  walked  up  the  stairs  without  a  word. 
He  followed  me,  and  entered  the  apartment  on  my 
heels.  He  had  not  been  in  it  before,  but  he  never 
gave  a  glance  at  the  room  I  had  been  at  pains  to 
make  pleasing  to  the  eye.  There  was  a  tin  of 
tobacco  on  the  table,  and,  taking  out  his  pipe,  he 
filled  it.  He  sat  down  on  the  only  chair  that  had 
no  arms  and  tilted  himself  on  the  back  legs. 

"If  you're  going  to  make  yourself  at  home,  why 
don't  you  sit  in  an  arm-chair?"  I  asked  irritably. 

"Why  are  you  concerned  about  my  comfort?" 

"I'm  not,"  I  retorted,  "but  only  about  my  own. 
It  makes  me  uncomfortable  to  see  someone  sit  on 
an  uncomfortable  chair." 

He  chuckled,  but  did  not  move.  He  smoked  on 
in  silence,  taking  no  further  notice  of  me,  and  ap- 
parently was  absorbed  in  thought.  I  wondered  why 
he  had  come. 

Until  long  habit  has  blunted  the  sensibility,  there 
is  something  disconcerting  to  the  writer  in  the  in- 
stinct which  causes  him  to  take  an  interest  in  the 
singularities  of  human  nature  so  absorbing  that  his 
moral  sense  is  powerless  against  it.  He  recognises 
in  himself  an  artistic  satisfaction  in  the  contempla- 
tion of  evil  which  a  little  startles  him;  but  sincerity 

202 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  203 

forces  him  to  confess  that  the  disapproval  he  feels 
for  certain  actions  is  not  nearly  so  strong  as  his 
curiosity  In  their  reasons.  The  character  of  a  scoun- 
drel, logical  and  complete,  has  a  fascination  for  his 
creator  which  Is  an  outrage  to  law  and  order.  I 
expect  that  Shakespeare  devised  lago  with  a  gusto 
which  he  never  knew  when,  weaving  moonbeams 
with  his  fancy,  he  imagined  Desdemona.  It  may  be 
that  in  his  rogues  the  writer  gratifies  instincts  deep- 
rooted  in  him,  which  the  manners  and  customs  of 
a  civilised  world  have  forced  back  to  the  mysterious 
recesses  of  the  subconscious.  In  giving  to  the  char- 
acter of  his  invention  flesh  and  bones  he  is  giving 
life  to  that  part  of  himself  which  finds  no  other 
means  of  expression.  His  satisfaction  Is  a  sense 
of  liberation. 

The  writer  is  more  concerned  to  know  than  to 
judge. 

There  was  in  my  soul  a  perfectly  genuine  horror 
of  Strickland,  and  side  by  side  with  it  a  cold  curi- 
osity to  discover  his  motives.  I  was  puzzled  by  him, 
and  ,1  was  eager  to  see  how  he  regarded  the  tragedy 
he  had  caused  in  the  lives  of  people  who  had  used 
him  with  so  much  kindness.  I  applied  the  scalpel 
boldly. 

"Stroeve  told  me  that  picture  you  painted  of  his 
wife  was  the  best  thing  you've  ever  done." 

Strickland  took  his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth,  ^nd  a 
smile  lit  up  his  eyes. 

"It  was  great  fun  to  do." 

"Why  did  you  give  it  him  ?" 

"I'd  finished  it.    It  wasn't  any  good  to  me.** 


204  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

"Do  you  know  that  Stroeve  nearly  destroyed  it?** 

"It  wasn't  altogether  satisfactory." 

He  was  quiet  for  a  moment  or  two,  then  he  tooK 
his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth  again,  and  chuckled. 

"Do  you  know  that  the  little  man  came  to  see 
me?" 

"Weren't  you  rather  touched  by  what  he  had 
to  say?" 

"No;  I  thought  it  damned  silly  and  sentimental." 

"I  suppose  it  escaped  your  memory  tliat  you'd 
ruined  his  life?"  I  remarked. 

He  rubbed  his  bearded  chin  reflectively,^ 

"He's  a  very  bad  painter." 

"But  a  very  good  man." 

"And  an  excellent  cook,"  Strickland  added  dc- 
t  isively. 

His  callousness  was  inhuman,  and  in  my  indig- 
nation I  was  not  inclined  to  mince  my  words. 

"As  a  mere  matter  of  curiosity  I  wish  you'd  tell 
me,  have  you  felt  the  smallest  twinge  of  remorse  for 
Blanche  Stroeve's  death?" 

I  watched  his  face  for  some  change  of  expression^ 
but  it  remained  impassive. 

"Why  should  I?"  he  asked. 

"Let  me  put  the  facts  before  you.  You  were 
dying,  and  Dirk  Stroeve  took  you  into  his  own 
house.  He  nursed  you  like  a  mother.  He  sacri- 
ficed his  time  and  his  comfort  and  his  money  for 
you.     He  snatched  you  from  the  jaws  of  death." 

Strickland  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"The  absurd  little  man  enjoys  doing  things  for 
other  people.    That's  his  life." 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  205 

"Granting  that  you  owed  him  no  gratitude,  were 
you  obliged  to  go  out  of  your  way  to  take  his  wife 
from  him?  Until  you  came  on  the  scene  they  were 
happy.    Why  couldn't  you  leave  them  alone  ?" 

"What  makes  you  think  they  were  happy?" 

"It  was  evident." 

"You  are  a  discerning  fellow.  Do  you  think  she 
could  ever  have  forgiven  him  for  what  he  did  for 
her?" 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

"Don't  you  know  why  he  married  her?" 

I  shook  my  head. 

"She  was  a  governess  in  the  family  of  some 
Roman  prince,  and  the  son  of  the  house  seduced 
her.  She  thought  he  was  going  to  marry  her.  They 
turned  her  out  into  the  street  neck  and  crop.  She 
was  going  to  have  a  baby,  and  she  tried  to  commit 
suicide.     Stroeve  found  her  and  married  her." 

"It  was  just  like  him.  I  never  knew  anyone  wItK 
so  compassionate  a  heart." 

I  had  often  wondered  why  that  ill-assorted  pair 
had  married,  but  just  that  explanation  had  never 
occurred  to  me.  That  was  perhaps  the  cause  of 
the  peculiar  quality  of  Dirk's  love  for  his  wife.  I 
had  noticed  in  it  something  more  than  passion,  I 
remembered  also  how  I  had  always  fancied  that  her 
reserve  concealed  I  knew  not  what;  but  now  I  saw 
in  it  more  than  the  desire  to  hide  a  shameful  secret. 
Her  tranquillity  was  like  the  sullen  calm  that  broods 
over  an  island  which  has  been  swept  by  a  hurricane. 
Her  cheerfulness  was  the  cheerfulness  of  despair. 
Strickland  interrupted  my   reflections   with   an  ob« 


206  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

servation  the  profound  qmicism  of  which  startled 
me. 

"A  woman  can  forgive  a  man  for  the  harm  he 
does  her,"  he  said,  "but  she  can  never  forgive  him 
for  the  sacrifices  he  makes  on  }ier  account." 

**It  must  be  reassuring  to  you  to  know  that  you 
certainly  run  no  risk  of  incurring  the  resentment  of 
the  women  you  come  in  contact  with,"  I  retorted. 

A  slight  smile  broke  on  his  lips. 

"You  are  always  prepared  to  sacrifice  your  prin- 
ciples for  a  repartee,"  he  answered. 

"What  happened  to  the  child?" 

"Oh,  It  was  still-born,  three  or  four  months  after 
they  were  married." 

Then  I  came  to  the  question  which  had  seemed 
to  me  most  puzzling. 

"Will  you  tell  me  why  you  bothered  about 
Blanche  Stroeve  at  all?" 

He  did  not  answer  for  so  long  that  1  nearly 
repeated  It. 

"How  do  I  know?"  he  said  at  last.  "She  couldn't 
bear  the  sight  of  me.     It  amused  me." 

"I  see." 

He  gave  a  sudden  flash  of  anger. 

"Damn  It  all,  I  wanted  her." 

But  he  recovered  his  temper  immediately,  and 
looked  at  me  with  a  smile. 

"At  first  she  was  horrified." 

"Did  you  tell  her?" 

"There  wasn't  any  need.  She  knew.  I  never 
said  a  word.  She  was  frightened.  At  last  I  took 
her." 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  207 

I  do  not  know  what  there  was  in  the  way  he  told 
me  this  that  extraordinarily  suggested  the  violence 
of  his  desire.  It  was  disconcerting  and  rather  hor- 
rible. His  life  was  strangely  divorced  from  ma- 
terial things,  and  it  was  as  though  his  body  at  times 
wreaked  a  fearful  revenge  on  his  spirit.  The  satyr 
in  him  suddenly  took  possession,  and  he  was  power- 
less in  the  grip  of  an  instinct  which  had  all  the 
strength  of  the  primitive  forces  of  nature.  It  was 
an  obsession  so  complete  that  there  was  no  room 
in  his  soul  for  prudence  or  gratitude. 

"But  why  did  you  want  to  take  her  away  with 
you?"  I  asked. 

"I  didn't,"  he  answered,  frowning.  "When  she 
said  she  was  coming  I  was  nearly  as  surprised  as 
Stroeve.  I  told  her  that  when  I'd  had  enough  of 
her  she'd  have  to  go,  and  she  said  she'd  risk  that." 
He  paused  a  little.  "She  had  a  wonderful  body, 
and  I  wanted  to  paint  a  nude.  When  I'd  finished 
my  picture  I  took  no  more  interest  in  her." 

"And  she  loved  you  with  all  her  heart." 

He  sprang  to  his  feet  and  walked  up  and  down 
the  small  room. 

"I  don't  want  love.  I  haven't  time  for  it.  It's 
weakness.  I  am  a  man,  and  sometimes  I  want  a 
woman.  When  I've  satisfied  my  passion  I'm  ready 
for  other  things.  I  can't  overcome  my  desire,  but 
I  hate  it;  it  imprisons  my  spirit;  I  look  forward  to 
the  time  when  I  shall  be  free  from  all  desire  and 
can  give  myself  without  hindrance  to  my  work.  Be- 
cause women  can  do  nothing  except  love,  they've 
given  it  a  ridiculous  Importance.    They  want  to  per- 


208  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

suade  us  that  It's  the  whole  of  life.  It's  an  Insig- 
nificant part.  I  know  lust.  That's  normal  and 
healthy.  Love  is  a  disease.  Women  are  the  instru- 
ments of  my  pleasure ;  I  have  no  patience  with  their 
claim  to  be  helpmates,  partners,  companions." 

I  had  never  heard  Strickland  speak  so  much  at 
one  time.  He  spoke  with  a  passion  of  indignation. 
But  neither  here  nor  elsewhere  do  I  pretend  to 
give  his  exact  words;  his  vocabulary  was  small,  and 
he  had  no  gift  for  framing  sentences,  so  that  one 
had  to  piece  his  meaning  together  out  of  Interjec- 
tions, the  expression  of  his  face,  gestures  and  hack- 
neyed phrases. 

"You  should  have  lived  at  a  time  when  women 
were  chattels  and  men  the  masters  of  slaves,"  I 
said. 

"It  just  happens  that  I  am  a  completely  normal 
man." 

I  could  not  help  laughing  at  this  remark,  made 
in  all  seriousness;  but  he  went  on,  walking  up  and 
down  the  room  like  a  caged  beast,  Intent  on  express- 
ing what  he  felt,  but  found  such  difficulty  in  putting 
coherently. 

"When  a  woman  loves  you  she's  not  satisfied  until 
she  possesses  your  soul.  Because  she's  weak,  she 
has  a  rage  for  domination,  and  nothing  less  will 
satisfy  her.  She  has  a  small  mind,  and  she  resents 
the  abstract  which  she  is  unable  to  grasp.  She  is 
occupied  with  material  things,  and  she  Is  jealous 
of  the  ideal.  The  soul  of  man  wanders  through  the 
uttermost  regions  of  the  universe,  and  she  seeks 
to  imprison  it  In  the  circle  of  her  account-book.    Do 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  209 

you  remember  my  wife?  I  saw  Blanche  little  by 
little  trying  all  her  tricks.  With  infinite  patience 
she  prepared  to  snare  me  and  bind  me.  She  wanted 
to  bring  me  down  to  her  level;  she  cared  nothing 
for  me,  she  only  wanted  me  to  be  hers.  She  was 
willing  to  do  everything  in  the  world  for  me  except 
the  one  thing  I  wanted:  to  leave  me  alone." 

I  was  silent  for  a  while. 

"What  did  you  expect  her  to  do  when  you  left 
her?" 

"She  could  have  gone  back  to  Stroeve,"  he  said 
irritably.     "He  was  ready  to  take  her." 

"You're  inhuman,"  I  answered.  "It's  as  useless 
to  talk  to  you  about  these  things  as  to  describe  col- 
ours to  a  man  who  was  born  blind." 

He  stopped  in  front  of  my  chair,  and  stood  look- 
ing down  at  me  with  an  expression  In  which  I  read 
a  contemptuous  amazement. 

"Do  you  really  care  a  twopenny  damn  if  Blanche 
Stroeve  is  alive  or  dead?" 

I  thought  over  his  question,  for  I  wanted  to  an- 
swer it  truthfully,  at  all  events  to  my  soul. 

"It  may  be  a  lack  of  sympathy  in  myself  if  it 
does  not  make  any  great  difference  to  me  that  she 
is  dead.  Life  had  a  great  deal  to  offer  her.  I  think 
it's  terrible  that  she  should  have  been  deprived  of 
it  in  that  cruel  way,  and  I  am  ashamed  because  I  do 
not  really  care." 

"You  have  not  the  courage  of  your  convictions,. 
Life  has  no  value.  Blanche  Stroeve  didn't  commit 
suicide  because  I  left  her,  but  because  she  was  a 
foolish  and  unbalanced  woman.     But  we've  talked 


SIO  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

about  her  quite  enough;  she  was  an  entirely  unim- 
portant person.  Come,  and  I'll  show  you  my  pic- 
tures." 

He  spoke  as  though  I  were  a  child  that  needed 
to  be  distracted.  I  was  sore,  but  not  with  him  so 
much  as  with  myself.  I  thought  of  the  happy  life 
that  pair  had  led  in  the  cosy  studio  in  Montmartre, 
Stroeve  and  his  wife,  their  simphcity,  kindness,  and 
hospitahty;  it  seemed  to  me  cruel  that  it  should 
have  been  broken  to  pieces  by  a  ruthless  chance; 
but  the  cruellest  thing  of  all  was  that  in  fact  it 
made  no  great  difference.  The  world  went  on,  and 
no  one  was  a  penny  the  worse  for  all  that  wretched- 
ness. I  had  an  idea  that  Dirk,  a  man  of  greater 
emotional  reactions  than  depth  of  feeling,  would 
soon  forget;  and  Blanche's  life,  begun  with  who 
knows  what  bright  hopes  and  what  dreams,  might 
just  as  well  have  never  been  lived.  It  all  seemed 
useless  and  inane. 

Strickland  had  found  his  hat,  and  stood  looking 
at  me. 

"Are  you  coming?" 

"Why  do  you  seek  my  acquaintance?'*  I  asked 
him.     "You  know  that  I  hate  and  despise  you." 

He  chuckled  good-humouredly. 

"Your  only  quarrel  with  me  really  is  that  I  don't 
care  a  twopenny  damn  what  you  think  about  me." 

I  felt  my  cheeks  grow  red  with  sudden  anger.  It 
was  impossible  to  make  him  understand  that  one 
might  be  outraged  by  his  callous  selfishness.  I 
longed  to  pierce  his  armour  of  complete  indiffer- 
ence.    I  knew  also  that  In  the  end  there  was  truth 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  211 

In  what  he  said.  Unconsciously,  perhaps,  we  treas- 
ure the  power  we  have  over  people  by  their  regard 
for  our  opinion  of  them,  and  we  hate  those  upon 
whom  we  have  no  such  influence.  I  suppose  it  is 
the  bitterest  wound  to  human  pride.  But  I  would 
not  let  him  see  that  I  was  put  out. 

"Is  it  possible  for  any  man  to  disregard  others 
entirely?"  I  said,  though  more  to  myself  than  to 
him.  "You're  dependent  on  others  for  everything 
in  existence.  It's  a  preposterous  attempt  to  try  to 
live  only  for  yourself  and  by  yourself.  Sooner  or 
later  you'll  be  ill  and  tired  and  old,  and  then  you'll 
crawl  back  into  the  herd.  Won't  you  be  ashamed 
when  you  feel  in  your  heart  the  desire  for  comfort 
and  sympathy?  You're  trying  an  Impossible  thing. 
Sooner  or  later  the  human  being  in  you  will  yearn 
for  the  common  bonds  of  humanity." 
"Come  and  look  at  my  pictures." 
"Have  you  ever  thought  of  death?" 
"Why  should  I?  It  doesn't  matter." 
I  stared  at  him.  He  stood  before  me,  motion- 
Bess,  with  a  mocking  smile  In  his  eyes;  but  for  all  that, 
for  a  moment  I  had  an  inkling  of  a  fiery,  tortured 
spirit,  aiming  at  something  greater  than  could  be 
conceived  by  anything  that  was  bound  up  with  the 
flesh.  I  had  a  fleeting  glimpse  of  a  pursuit  of  the 
Ineffable.  I  looked  at  the  man  before  me  In  his 
shabby  clothes,  with  his  great  nose  and  shining  eyes, 
his  red  beard  and  untidy  hair;  and  I  had  a  strange 
sensation  that  it  was  only  an  envelope,  and  I  was 
in  the  presence  of  a  disembodied  spirit. 

"Let  us  go  and  look  at  your  pictures,"  I  said. 


Chapter  XLII 

1DID  not  know  why  Strickland  had  suddenly  of- 
fered to  show  them  to  me.  I  welcomed  the 
opportunity.  A  man's  work  reveals  him.  In 
social  intercourse  he  gives  you  the  surface  that  he 
wishes  the  world  to  accept,  and  you  can  only  gain 
a  true  knowledge  of  him  by  inferences  from  little 
actions,  of  which  he  is  unconscious,  and  from  fleet- 
ing expressions,  which  cross  his  face  unknown  to 
him.  Sometimes  people  carry  to  such  perfection 
the  mask  they  have  assumed  that  in  due  course  they 
actually  become  the  person  they  seem.  But  in  his 
book  or  his  picture  the  real  man  delivers  himself 
defenceless.  His  pretentiousness  will  only  expose 
his  vacuity.  The  lathe  painted  to  look  like  iron  is 
seen  to  be  but  a  lathe.  No  affectation  of  peculiar- 
ity can  conceal  a  commonplace  mind.  To  the  acute 
observer  no  one  can  produce  the  most  casual  work 
without  disclosing  the  innermost  secrets  of  his  soul. 
As  I  walked  up  the  endless  stairs  of  the  house  in 
which  Strickland  lived,  I  confess  that  I  was  a  little 
excited.  It  seemed  to  me  that  I  was  on  the  thresh- 
old of  a  surprising  adventure.  I  looked  about  the 
room  with  curiosity.  It  was  even  smaller  and  more 
bare  than  I  remembered  it.  I  wondered  what  those 
friends  of  mine  would  say  who  demanded  vast  stu- 
dios, and  vowed  they  could  not  work  unless  all  the 
conditions  were  to  their  liking. 

212 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  21 S 

"You'd  better  stand  there,"  he  said,  pointing  to  a 
spot  from  which,  presumably,  he  fancied  I  could 
see  to  best  advantage  what  he  had  to  show  me. 

"You  don't  want  me  to  talk,  I  suppose,"  I  said. 

"No,  blast  you;  I  want  you  to  hold  your  tongue." 

He  placed  a  picture  on  the  easel,  and  let  me  look 
at  It  for  a  minute  or  two;  then  took  It  down  and 
put  another  In  Its  place.  I  think  he  showed  me 
about  thirty  canvases.  It  was  the  result  of  the  six 
years  during  which  he  had  been  painting.  He  had 
never  sold  a  picture.  The  canvases  were  of  differ- 
ent sizes.  The  smaller  were  pictures  of  still-life  and 
the  largest  were  landscapes.  There  were  about  hatf 
a  dozen  portraits. 

"That  Is  the  lot,"  he  said  at  last. 

I  wish  I  could  say  that  I  recognised  at  once 
their  beauty  and  their  great  originality.  Now  that 
I  have  seen  many  of  them  again  and  the  rest  are 
familiar  to  me  In  reproductions,  I  am  astonished 
that  at  first  sight  I  was  bitterly  disappointed.  I 
felt  nothing  of  the  peculiar  thrill  which  It  Is  the 
property  of  art  to  give.  The  impression  that  Strick- 
land's pictures  gave  me  was  disconcerting;  and  the 
fact  remains,  always  to  reproach  me,  that  I  never 
even  thought  of  buying  any.  I  missed  a  wonderful 
chance.  Most  of  them  have  found  their  way  Into 
museums,  and  the  rest  are  the  treasured  possessions 
of  wealthy  amateurs.  I  try  to  find  excuses  for  my- 
self. I  think  that  my  taste  is  good,  but  I  am  con- 
scious that  It  has  no  originality.  I  know  very  little 
about  painting,  and  I  wander  along  trails  that  others 
have  blazed  for  me.     At  that  time  I  had  the  great- 


S14  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

est  admiration  for  the  Impressionists.  I  longed  to 
possess  a  Sisley  and  a  Degas,  and  I  worshipped 
Manet.  His  Olympia  seemed  to  me  the  greatest 
picture  of  modern  times,  and  Le  Dejeuner  sur 
I'Herbe  moved  me  profoundly.  These  works  seemed 
to  me  the  last  word  in  painting. 

I  will  not  describe  the  pictures  that  Strickland 
showed  me.  Descriptions  of  pictures  are  always 
dull,  and  these,  besides,  are  familiar  to  all  who  take 
an  interest  in  such  things.  Now  that  his  influence 
has  so  enormously  affected  modern  painting,  now 
that  others  have  charted  the  country  which  he  was 
among  the  first  to  explore,  Strickland's  pictures,  seen 
for  the  first  time,  would  find  the  mind  more  pre- 
pared  for  them;  but  it  must  be  remembered  that  I 
had  never  seen  anything  of  the  sort.  First  of  all 
I  was  taken  aback  by  what  seemed  to  me  the  clumsi- 
ness of  his  technique.  Accustomed  to  the  drawing 
of  the  old  masters,  and  convinced  that  Ingres  was 
the  greatest  draughtsman  of  recent  times,  I  thought 
that  Strickland  drew  very  badly.  I  knew  nothing  of 
the  simplification  at  which  he  aimed.  I  remember 
a  still-life  of  oranges  on  a  plate,  and  I  was  both- 
ered because  the  plate  was  not  round  and  the  oranges 
were  lop-sided.  The  portraits  were  a  little  larger 
than  life-size,  and  this  gave  them  an  ungainly  look. 
To  my  eyes  the  faces  looked  like  caricatures.  They 
were  painted  in  a  way  that  was  entirely  new  to  me. 
The  landscapes  puzzled  me  even  more.  There  were 
two  or  three  pictures  of  the  forest  at  Fontainebleau 
and  several  of  streets  in  Paris :  my  first  feeling  was 
that  they  might  have  been  painted  by  a  drunken  cab* 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  1215 

driver.  I  was  perfectly  bewildered.  The  colour 
seemed  to  me  extraordinarily  crude.  It  passed 
through  my  mind  that  the  whole  thing  was  a  stu- 
pendous, incomprehensible  farce.  Now  that  I  look 
back  I  am  more  than  ever  impressed  by  Stroeve's 
acuteness.  He  saw  from  the  first  that  here  was  a 
revolution  in  art,  and  he  recognised  in  its  beginnings 
the  genius  which  now  all  the  world  allows. 

But  if  I  was  puzzled  and  disconcerted,  I  was  not 
unimpressed.  Even  I,  in  my  colossal  ignorance, 
could  not  but  feel  that  here,  trying  to  express  itself, 
was  real  power.  I  was  excited  and  interested.  I 
felt  that  these  pictures  had  something  to  say  to  me 
that  was  very  important  for  me  to  know,  but  I 
could  not  tell  what  it  was.  They  seemed  to  me 
ugly,  but  they  suggested  without  disclosing  a  secret 
of  momentous  significance.  They  were  strangely 
tantalising.  They  gave  me  an  emotion  that  I  could 
not  analyse.  They  said  something  that  words  were 
powerless  to  utter.  I  fancy  that  Strickland  saw 
vaguely  some  spiritual  meaning  in  material  things 
that  was  so  strange  that  he  could  only  suggest  it 
with  halting  symbols.  It  was  as  though  he  found 
in  the  chaos  of  the  universe  a  new  pattern,  and 
were  attempting  clumsily,  with  anguish  of  soul,  to 
set  it  down.  I  saw  a  tormented  spirit  striving  for 
the  release  of  expression. 

I  turned  to  him. 

"I  wonder  if  you  haven't  mistaken  your  medium," 
I  said. 

"What  the  hell  do  you  mean?" 

"I  think  you're  trying  to  say  something,  I  don't 


316  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

quite  know  what  it  Is,  but  I'm  not  sure  that  the  best 
way  of  saying  it  is  by  means  of  painting." 

When  I  imagined  that  on  seeing  his  pictures  I 
should  get  a  clue  to  the  understanding  of  his  strange 
character  I  was  mistaken.  They  merely  increased 
the  astonishment  with  which  he  filled  me.  I  was 
more  at  sea  than  ever.  The  only  thing  that  seemed 
clear  to  me — and  perhaps  even  this  was  fanciful— 
was  that  he  was  passionately  striving  for  liberation 
from  some  power  that  held  him.  But  what  the 
power  was  and  what  line  the  liberation  would  take 
remained  obscure.  Each  one  of  us  is  alone  in  the 
world.  He  is  shut  in  a  tower  of  brass,  and  can 
communicate  with  his  fellows  only  by  signs,  and  the 
signs  have  no  common  value,  so  that  their  sense  is 
vague  and  uncertain.  We  seek  pitifully  to  convey 
to  others  the  treasures  of  our  heart,  but  they  have 
not  the  power  to  accept  them,  and  so  we  go  lonely, 
side  by  side  but  not  together,  unable  to  know  our 
fellows  and  unknown  by  them.  We  are  like  people 
living  in  a  country  whose  language  they  know  so 
little  that,  with  all  manner  of  beautiful  and  pro- 
found things  to  say,  they  are  condemned  to  the 
banalities  of  the  conversation  manual.  Their  brain 
is  seething  with  ideas,  and  they  can  only  tell  you 
that  the  umbrella  of  the  gardener's  aunt  is  in  the 
house. 

The  final  impression  I  received  was  of  a  pro- 
digious effort  to  express  some  state  of  the  soul, 
and  in  this  effort,  I  fancied,  must  be  sought  the 
explanation  of  what  so  utterly  perplexed  me.  It 
was  evident  that  colours  and  forms  had  a  signif- 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  21T 

icance  for  Strickland  that  was  peculiar  to  himself. 
He  was  under  an  intolerable  necessity  to  convey 
something  that  he  felt,  and  he  created  them  with 
that  intention  alone.  He  did  not  hesitate  to  sim- 
phfy  or  to  distort  if  he  could  get  nearer  to  that 
unknown  thing  he  sought.  Facts  were  nothing  to 
him,  for  beneath  the  mass  of  irrelevant  incidents 
he  looked  for  something  significant  to  himself.  It 
was  as  though  he  had  become  aware  of  the  soul  of 
the  universe  and  were  compelled  to  express  it. 
Though  these  pictures  confused  and  puzzled  me,  I 
could  not  be  unmoved  by  the  emotion  that  was  pat- 
ent in  them;  and,  I  knew  not  why,  I  felt  in  myself 
a  feeling  that  with  regard  to  Strickland  was  the 
last  I  had  ever  expected  to  experience.  I  felt  an 
overwhelming  compassion. 

"1  think  I  know  now  why  you  surrendered  to 
your  feeling  for  Blanche  Stroeve,"  I  said  to  him. 

"Why?" 

"I  think  your  courage  failed.  The  weakness  of 
your  body  communicated  itself  to  your  soul.  I  do 
not  know  what  infinite  yearning  possesses  you,  so 
that  you  are  driven  to  a  perilous,  lonely  search  for 
some  goal  where  you  expect  to  find  a  final  release 
from  the  spirit  that  torments  you.  I  see  you  as 
the  eternal  pilgrim  to  some  shrine  that  perhaps  does 
not  exist.  I  do  not  know  to  what  inscrutable  Nir- 
vana you  aim.  Do  you  know  yourself?  Perhaps 
it  is  Truth  and  Freedom  that  you  seek,  and  for  a 
moment  you  thought  that  you  might  find  release  in 
Love.  I  think  your  tired  soul  sought  rest  in^  a 
woman's  arms,  and  when  you  found  no  rest  there 


fel8  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

you  hated  her.  You  had  no  pity  for  her,  because 
you  have  no  pity  for  yourself.  And  you  killed  her 
out  of  fear,  because  you  trembled  still  at  the  danger 
you  had  barely  escaped. 

He  smiled  dryly  and  pulled  his  beard. 

"You  are  a  dreadful  sentimentalist,  my  poor 
'friend." 

A  week  later  I  heard  by  chance  that  Strickland 
had  gone  to  Marseilles.     I  never  saw  him  again. 


Chapter  XLIII 

LOOKING  back,  I  realise  that  what  I  have 
written  about  Charles  Strickland  must  seem 
very  unsatisfactory.  I  have  given  incidents 
that  came  to  my  knowledge,  but  they  remain  ob- 
scure because  I  do  not  know  the  reasons  that  led 
to  them.  The  strangest,  Strickland's  determination 
to  become  a  painter,  seems  to  be  arbitrary;  and 
though  it  must  have  had  causes  in  the  circumstances 
of  his  life,  I  am  ignorant  of  them.  From  his  ow» 
conversation  I  was  able  to  glean  nothing.  If  I 
were  writing  a  novel,  rather  than  narrating  such 
'facts  as  I  know  of  a  curious  personality,  I  should 
have  invented  much  to  account  for  this  change  of 
heart.  I  think  I  should  have  shown  a  strong  voca- 
tion In  boyhood,  crushed  by  the  will  of  his  father 
or  sacrificed  to  the  necessity  of  earning  a  living; 
I  should  have  pictured  him  impatient  of  the  re- 
straints of  life;  and  in  the  struggle  between  his  pas- 
sion for  art  and  the  duties  of  his  station  I  could 
Kave  aroused  sympathy  for  him.  I  should  so  have 
made  him  a  more  Imposing  figure.  Perhaps  It  would 
have  been  possible  to  see  in  him  a  new  Prometheus, 
rrhere  was  here,  maybe,  the  opportunity  for  a  mod- 
ern version  of  the  hero  who  for  the  good  of  man- 
kind exposes  himself  to  the  agonies  of  the  damned. 
It  is  always  a  moving  subject. 

On  the  other  hand,  I  might  have  found  his  mo- 
^ves  in  the  influence  of  the  married  relation.    There 

219 


220  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

are  a  dozen  ways  in  which  this  might  be  managed. 
A  latent  gift  might  reveal  itself  on  acquaintance  with 
the  painters  and  writers  whose  society  his  wife 
sought;  or  domestic  incompatability,  might  turn  him 
upon  himself;  a  love  affair  might  fan  into  bright 
flame  a  fire  which  I  could  have  shown  smouldering 
dimly  in  his  heart.  I  think  then  I  should  have 
drawn  Mrs.  Strickland  quite  differently.  I  should 
have  abandoned  the  facts  and  made  her  a  nagging, 
tiresome  woman,  or  else  a  bigoted  one  with  no  sym- 
pathy for  the  claims  of  the  spirit.  I  should  have 
made  Strickland's  marriage  a  long  torment  from 
which  escape  was  the  only  possible  issue.  I  think 
I  should  have  emphasised  his  patience  with  the  un- 
suitable mate,  and  the  compassion  which  made  him 
unwilling  to  throw  off  the  yoke  that  oppressed 
him.  I  should  certainly  have  eliminated  the  chil- 
dren. 

An  effective  story  might  also  have  been  made  By 
bringing  him  into  contact  with  some  old  painter 
whom  the  pressure  of  want  or  the  desire  for  com- 
mercial success  had  made  false  to  the  genius  of  his 
youth,  and  who,  seeing  in  Strickland  the  possibili- 
ties which  himself  had  wasted,  influenced  him  to 
forsake  all  and  follow  the  divine  tyranny  of  art.  I 
think  there  would  have  been  something  ironic  in  the 
picture  of  the  successful  old  man,  rich  and  hon- 
oured, living  in  another  the  life  which  he,  though 
knowing  it  was  the  better  part,  had  not  had  the 
strength  to  pursue. 

The  facts  are  much  duller.  Strickland,  a  boy 
fresh  from  school,  went  into  a  broker's  office  with- 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  2i8l 

out  any  feeling  of  distaste.  Until  he  married  he" 
led  the  ordinary  life  of  his  fellows,  gambling  mildlyj 
on  the  Exchange,  interested  to  the  extent  of  a  sov- 
ereign or  two  on  the  result  of  the  Derby  or  the 
Oxford  and  Cambridge  Race.  I  think  he  boxed  a 
little  in  his  spare  time.  On  his  chimney-piece  he 
had  photographs  of  Mrs.  Langtry  and  Mary  An- 
derson. He  read  Punch  and  the  Sporting  Times, 
He  went  to  dances  in  Hampstead. 

It  matters  less  that  for  so  long  I  should  have 
lost  sight  of  him.  The  years  during  which  he  was 
struggling  to  acquire  proficiency  in  a  difficult  art 
were  monotonous,  and  I  do  not  know  that  there  was 
anything  significant  in  the  shifts  to  which  he  was 
put  to  earn  enough  money  to  keep  him.  An  ac- 
count of  them  would  be  an  account  of  the  things 
he  had  seen  happen  to  other  people.  I  do  not  think 
they  had  any  effect  on  his  own  character.  He  must 
have  acquired  experiences  which  would  form  abun- 
dant material  for  a  picaresque  novel  of  modern 
Paris,  but  he  remained  aloof,  and  judging  from  his 
conversation  there  was  nothing  in  those  years  that 
had  made  a  particular  impression  on  him.  Perhaps 
when  he  went  to  Paris  he  was  too  old  to  fall  a 
victim  to  the  glamour  of  his  environment.  Strange 
as  It  may  seem,  he  always  appeared  to  me  not  only 
practical,  but  Immensely  matter-of-fact.  I  suppose 
his  life  during  this  period  was  romantic,  but  he 
certainly  saw  no  romance  In  It.  It  may  be  that  in 
order  to  realise  the  romance  of  life  you  must  have 
something  of  the  actor  in  you;  and,  capable  of 
standing  outside  yourself,  you  must  be  able  to  watcH 


222  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

your  actions  with  an  interest  at  once  detached  and 
absorbed.  But  no  one  was  more  single-minded  than 
Strickland.  I  never  knew  anyone  who  was  less  self- 
conscious.  But  it  is  unfortunate  that  I  can  give  no 
description  of  the  arduous  steps  by  which"  he  reached 
such  mastery  over  his  art  as  he  ever  acquired;  for 
if  I  could  show  him  undaunted  by  failure,  by  an 
unceasing  effort  of  courage  holding  despair  at  bay, 
doggedly  persistent  in  the  face  of  self-doubt,  which 
is  the  artist's  bitterest  enemy,  I  might  excite  some 
sympathy  for  a  personality  which,  I  am  all  too 
conscious,  must  appear  singularly  devoid  of  charm. 
But  I  have  nothing  to  go  on.  I  never  once  saw 
Strickland  at  work,  nor  do  I  know  that  anyone  else 
did.  He  kept  the  secret  of  his  struggles  to  himself. 
If  in  the  loneliness  of  his  studio  he  wrestled  des- 
perately with  the  Angel  of  the  Lord  he  never  al- 
lowed a  soul  to  divine  his  anguish. 

When  I  come  tO'  his  connection  with  Blanche 
Stroeve  I  am  exasperated  by  the  fragmentariness  of 
the  facts  at  my  disposal.  To  give  my  story  coher*. 
cnce  I  should  describe  the  progress  of  their  tragic 
union,  but  I  know  nothing  of  the  three  months' 
during  which  they  lived  together.  I  do  not  know 
how  they  got  on  or  what  they  talked  about.  After, 
all,  there  are  twenty-four  hours  in  the  day,  and  the 
summits  of  emotion  can  only  be  reached  at  rare 
intervals.  I  can  only  imagine  how  they  passed  the 
rest  of  the  time.  While  the  light  lasted  and  so  long 
as  Blanche's  strength  endured,  I  suppose  that  Strick- 
land painted,  and  it  must  have  irritated  her  when 
she  saw  him  absorbed  in  his  work.     As  a  mistress 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  »ft$ 

she  did  not  then  exist  for  him,  but  only  as  a  model ; 
and  then  there  were  long  hours  in  which  they  lived 
side  by  side  in  silence.  It  must  have  frightened  her. 
When  Strickland  suggested  that  in  her  surrender 
to  him  there  was  a  sense  of  triumph  over  Dirk 
Stroeve,  because  he  had  come  to  her  help  in  her 
extremity,  he  opened  the  door  to  many  a  dark  con- 
jecture. I  hope  it  was  not  true.  It  seems  to  me 
rather  horrible.  But  who  can  fathom  the  subtleties 
of  the  human  heart?  Certainly  not  those  who  expect 
from  it  only  decorous  sentiments  and  normal  emo- 
tions. When  Blanche  saw  that,  notwithstanding  his 
moments  of  passion,  Strickland  remained  aloof,  she 
must  have  been  fiUed  with  dismay,  and  even  in  those 
moments  I  surmise  that  she  realised  that  to  him 
she  was  not  an  individual,  but  an  instrument  of 
pleasure;  he  was  a  stranger  still,  and  she  tried  to 
bind  him  to  herself  with  pathetic  arts.  She  strove 
to  ensnare  him  with  comfort  and  would  not  see  that 
comfort  meant  nothing  to  him.  She  was  at  pains 
to  get  him  the  things  to  eat  that  he  liked,  and  would 
not  see  that  he  was  Indifferent  to  food.  She  was 
afraid  to  leave  him  alone.  She  pursued  him  with 
attentions,  and  when  his  passion  was  dormant 
sought  to  excite  it,  for  then  at  least  she  had  the  il- 
lusion of  holding  him.  Perhaps  she  knew  with  her 
intelligence  that  the  chains  she  forged  only  aroused 
his  instinct  of  destruction,  as  the  plate-glass  window 
makes  your  fingers  itch  for  half  a  brick;  but  her 
heart,  incapable  of  reason,  made  her  continue  on  a 
course  she  knew  was  fatal.  She  must  have  been 
very  unhappy.     But  the  blindness  of  love  led  her 


224  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

to  believe  what  she  wanted  to  be  true,  and  her  love 
was  so  great  that  It  seemed  Impossible  to  her  that  it 
should  not  In  return  awake  an  equal  love. 

But  my  study  of  Strickland's  character  suffers 
from  a  greater  defect  than  my  Ignorance  of  many 
facts.  Because  they  were  obvious  and  striking,  I 
have  written  of  his  relations  to  women;  and  yet 
they  were  but  an  Insignificant  part  of  his  life.  It 
is  an  irony  that  they  should  so  tragically  have  af- 
fected others.  His  real  life  consisted  of  dreams 
and  of  tremendously  hard  work. 

Here  lies  the  unreality  of  fiction.  For  in  men,  as 
a  rule,  love  is  but  an  episode  which  takes  its  place 
among  the  other  affairs  of  the  day,  and  the  emphasis 
laid  on  it  in  novels  gives  it  an  Importance  which 
is  untrue  to  life.  There  are  few  men  to  whom  It 
is  the  most  important  thing  in  the  world,  and  they 
are  not  very  interesting  ones;  even  women,  with 
whom  the  subject  is  of  paramount  interest,  have  a 
contempt  for  them.  They  are  flattered  and  excited 
by  them,  but  have  an  uneasy  feeling  that  they  are 
poor  creatures.  But  even  during  the  brief  intervals 
in  which  they  are  in  love,  men  do  other  things  which 
distract  their  mind;  the  trades  by  which  they  earn 
their  living  engage  their  attention;  they  are  ab- 
sorbed in  sport;  they  can  interest  themselves  In  art. 
For  the  most  part,  they  keep  their  various  activities 
in  various  compartments,  and  they  can  pursue  one 
to  the  temporary  exclusion  of  the  other.  They  have 
a  faculty  of  concentration  on  that  which  occupies 
them  at  the  moment,  and  it  irks  them  If  one  en- 
croaches on  the  other.     As  lovers,  the  difference  be-. 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  225 

tween  men  and  women  is  that  women  can  love  all. 
day  long,  but  men  only  at  times. 

With  Strickland  the  sexual  appetite  took  a  very 
small  place.  It  was  unimportant.  It  was  irksome. 
His  soul  aimed  elsewhither.  He  had  violent  pas- 
sions, and  on  occasion  desire  seized  his  body  so 
that  he  was  driven  to  an  orgy  of  lust,  but  he  hated 
the  instincts  that  robbed  him  of  his  self-possession. 
I  think,  even,  he  hated  the  inevitable  partner  in  his 
debauchery.  When  he  had  regained  command  over 
himself,  he  shuddered  at  the  sight  of  the  woman 
he  had  enjoyed.  His  thoughts  floated  then  serenely 
in  the  empyrean,  and  he  felt  towards  her  the  horror 
that  perhaps  the  painted  butterfly,  hovering  about 
the  flowers,  feels  to  the  filthy  chrysalis  from  which 
it  has  triumphantly  emerged.  I  suppose  that  art 
is  a  manifestation  of  the  sexual  instinct.  It  is  the 
same  emotion  which  is  excited  in  the  human  heart 
by  the  sight  of  a  lovely  woman,  the  Bay  of  Naples 
under  the  yellow  moon,  and  the  Entombment  of 
Titian.  It  is  possible  that  Strickland  hated  the  nor- 
mal release  of  sex  because  it  seemed  to  him  brutal 
by  comparison  with  the  satisfaction  of  artistic  crea- 
tion. It  seems  strange  even  to  myself,  when  I  have 
described  a  man  who  was  cruel,  selfish,  brutal  and 
sensual,  to  say  that  he  was  a  great  idealist.  The 
fact  remains. 

He  lived  more  poorly  than  an  artisan.  He  worked 
harder.  He  cared  nothing  for  those  things  which 
with  most  people  make  life  gracious  and  beautiful. 
He  was  indifferent  to  money.  He  cared  nothing 
about  fame.     You  cannot  praise  him  because  he  re- 


226  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

sisted  the  temptation  to  make  any  of  those  com- 
promises with  the  world  which  most  of  us  yield  to. 
He  had  no  such  temptation.  It  never  entered  his 
head  that  compromise  was  possible.  He  lived  in 
Paris  more  lonely  than  an  anchorite  in  the  deserts 
of  Thebes.  He  asked  nothing  from  his  fellows 
except  that  they  should  leave  him  alone.  He  was 
single-hearted  in  his  aim,  and  to  pursue  It  he  was 
willing  to  sacrifice  not  only  himself — ^many  can  do 
that — but  others.     He  had  a  vision. 

Strickland  was  an  odious  man,  but  I  still  think 
be  was  a  great  one. 


Chapter  XLIV 

A  CERTAIN  importance  attaches  to  the  views 
on  art  of  painters,  and  this  is  the  natural 
place  for  me  to  set  down  what  I  know  of 
Strickland's  opinions  of  the  great  artists  of  the  past. 
I  am  afraid  I  have  very  little  worth  noting.  Strick- 
land was  not  a  conversationalist,  and  he  had  no 
gift  for  putting  what  he  had  to  say  in  the  striking 
phrase  that  the  listener  remembers.  He  had  no 
wit.  His  humour,  as  will  be  seen  if  I  have  in  any 
way  succeeded  in  reproducing  the  manner  of  his 
conversation,  was  sardonic.  His  repartee  was  rude. 
He  made  one  laugh  sometimes  by  speaking  the  truth, 
but  this  is  a  form  of  humour  which  gains  its  force 
only  by  its  unusualness;  it  would  cease  to  amuse 
if  it  were  commonly  practised. 

Strickland  was  not,  I  should  say,  a  man  of  great 
intelligence,  and  his  views  on  painting  were  by  no 
means  out  of  the  ordinary.  I  never  heard  him  speak 
of  those  whQse  work  had  a  certain  analogy  with  his 
own — of  Cezanne,  for  instance,  or  of  Van  Gogh; 
and  I  doubt  very  much  if  he  had  ever  seen  their 
pictures.  He  was  not  greatly  interested  in  the  Im- 
pressionists. Their  technique  impressed  him,  but  I 
fancy  that  he  thought  their  attitude  commonplace. 
When  Stroeve  was  holding  forth  at  length  on  the 
excellence  of  Monet,  he  said:  "I  prefer  Winterhal- 
t€r."  But  I  dare  say  he  said  it  to  annoy,  and  if 
he  did  He  certainly  succeeded. 

227 


228  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

I  am  disappointed  that  I  cannot  report  any  ex- 
travagances in  his  opinions  on  the  old  masters. 
There  is  so  much  in  his  character  which  is  strange 
that  I  feel  it  would  complete  the  picture  if  his  views 
were  outrageous.  I  feel  the  need  to  ascribe  to  him 
fantastic  theories  about  his  predecessors,  and  it  is 
with  a  certain  sense  of  disillusion  that  I  confess  he 
thought  about  them  pretty  much  as  does  everybody 
else.  I  do  not  believe  he  knew  El  Greco.  He  had 
a  great  but  somewhat  impatient  admiration  for 
Velasquez.  Chardin  delighted  him,  and  Rembrandt 
moved  him  to  ecstasy.  He  described  the  impres- 
sion that  Rembrandt  made  on  him  with  a  coarseness 
I  cannot  repeat.  The  only  painter  that  interested 
him  who  was  at  all  unexpected  was  Brueghel  the 
Elder.  I  knew  very  little  about  him  at  that  time, 
and  Strickland  had  no  power  to  explain  himself. 
I  remember  what  he  said  about  him  because  it  was 
so  unsatisfactory. 

"He's  all  right,"  said  Strickland.  *T  bet  he 
found  it  hell  to  paint." 

When  later,  in  Vienna,  I  saw  several  of  Peter 
Brueghel's  pictures,  I  thought  I  understood  why  he 
had  attracted  Strickland's  attention.  Here,  too,  was 
a  man  with  a  vision  of  the  world  peculiar  to  himself. 
I  made  somewhat  copious  notes  at  the  time,  Intending 
to  write  something  about  him,  but  I  have  lost  them, 
and  have  now  only  the  recollection  of  an  emotion. 
He  seemed  to  see  his  fellow-creatures  grotesquely, 
and  he  was  angry  with  them  because  they  were 
grotesque;  life  was  a  confusion  of  ridiculous,  sordid 
happenings,   a  fit  subject  for  laughter,   and  yet  it 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  229 

made  him  sorrowful  to  laugh.  Brueghel  gave  me 
the  impression  of  a  man  striving  to  express  in  one 
medium  feelings  more  appropriate  to  expression  in 
another,  and  it  may  be  that  it  was  the  obscure  con- 
sciousness of  this  that  excited  Strickland's  sympathy. 
Perhaps  both  were  trying  to  put  down  In  paint  ideas 
which  were  more  suitable  to  literature. 

Strickland  at  this  time  must  have  been  nearly 
forty-seven. 


Chapter  XLV 

1HAVE  said  already  that  but  for  the  hazard  of 
a  journey  to  Tahiti  1  should  doubtless  never 
have  written  this  book.  It  is  thither  that  after 
many  wanderings  Charles  Stricl<.land  came,  and  it 
is  there  that  he  painted  the  pictures  on  which  his 
fame  most  securely  rests.  I  suppose  no  artist  achieves 
completely  the  realisation  of  the  dream  that  obsesses 
him,  and  Strickland,  harassed  incessantly  by  his 
struggle  with  technique,  managed,  perhaps,  less  than 
others  to  express  the  vision  that  he  saw  with  his 
mind's  eye;  but  in  Tahiti  the  circumstances  were 
favourable  to  him;  he  found  in  his  surroundings  the 
accidents  necessary  for  his  inspiration  to  become 
effective,  and  his  later  pictures  give  at  least  a  sug- 
gestion of  what  he  sought.  They  offer  the  imagina- 
tion something  new  and  strange.  It  is  as  though 
in  this  far  country  his  spirit,  that  had  wandered 
disembodied,  seeking  a  tenement,  at  last  was  able 
to  clothe  itself  in  flesh.  To  use  the  hackneyed 
phrase,  here  he  found  himself. 

It  would  seem  that  my  visit  to  this  remote  island 
should  immediately  revive  my  interest  in  Strickland, 
but  the  work  I  was  engaged  in  occupied  my  atten- 
tion to  the  exclusion  of  something  that  was  irrele- 
vant, and  it  was  not  till  I  had  been  there  some  days 
that  I  even  remembered  his  connection  with  it.  After 
all,  I  had  not  seen  him  for  fifteen  years,  and  it  wag 
nine  since  he  died.    But  I  think  my  arrival  at  Tahiti 

230 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  231 

would  have  driven  out  of  my  head  matters  of  much 
more  immediate  importance  to  me,  and  even  after  a 
week  I  found  it  not  easy  to  order  myself  soberly. 
I  remember  that  on  my  first  morning  I  awoke  early, 
and  when  I  came  on  to  the  terrace  of  the  hotel  no 
one  was  stirring.  I  wandered  round  to  the  kitchen, 
but  it  was  locked,  and  on  a  bench  outside  It  a  native 
boy  was  sleeping.  There  seemed  no  chance  of 
breakfast  for  some  time,  so  I  sauntered  down  to 
the  water-front.  The  Chinamen  were  already  busy 
in  their  shops.  The  sky  had  still  the  pallor  of 
dawn,  and  there  was  a  ghostly  silence  on  the  lagoon. 
Ten  miles  away  the  island  of  Murea,  like  some 
high  fastness  of  the  Holy  Grail,  guarded  its  mystery. 
I  did  not  altogether  believe  my  eyes.  The  days 
that  had  passed  since  I  left  Wellington  seemed  ex- 
traordinary and  unusual.  Wellington  is  trim  and 
neat  and  English;  it  reminds  you  of  a  seaport  town 
on  the  South  Coast.  And  for  three  days  afterwards 
the  sea  was  stormy.  Gray  clouds  chased  one  an- 
other across  the  sky.  Then  the  wind  dropped,  and 
the  sea  was  calm  and  blue.  The  Pacific  is  more 
desolate  than  other  seas;  Its  spaces  seem  more  vast, 
and  the  most  ordinary  journey  upon  It  has  somehow 
the  feeling  of  an  adventure.  The  air  you  breathe 
is  an  elixir  which  prepares  you  for  the  unexpected 
Nor  is  it  vouchsafed  to  man  in  the  flesh  to  know 
aught  that  more  nearly  suggests  the  approach  to  the 
golden  realms  of  fancy  than  the  approach  to  Tahiti. 
Murea,  the  sister  Isle,  comes  Into  view  in  rocky  splen- 
dour, rising  from  the  desert  sea  mysteriously,  like 
the  unsu'bstantial  fabric  of  a  ma^c  wand.    With  its 


232  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

jagged  outline  it  is  like  a  Monseratt  of  the  Pacific, 
and  you  may  imagine  that  there  Polynesian  knights 
guard  with  strange  rites  mysteries  unholy  for  men  to 
know.  The  beauty  of  the  island  is  unveiled  as  dimin- 
ishing distance  shows  you  in  distincter  shape  its 
lovely  peaks,  but  it  keeps  its  secret  as  you  sail  by, 
and,  darkly  inviolable,  seems  to  fold  itself  together 
in  a  stony,  inaccessible  grimness.  It  would  not  sur- 
prise you  if,  as  you  came  near  seeking  for  an  open- 
ing in  the  reef,  it  vanished  suddenly  from  your  view, 
and  nothing  met  your  gaze  but  the  blue  loneliness 
of  the  Pacific. 

Tahiti  is  a  lofty  green  island,  with  deep  folds  of 
a  darker  green,  in  which  you  divine  silent  valleys; 
there  Is  mystery  in  their  sombre  depths,  down  which 
murmur  and  plash  cool  streams,  and  you  feel  that  in 
those  umbrageous  places  life  from  Immemorial  times 
has  been  led  according  to  immemorial  ways.  Even 
here  Is  something  sad  and  terrible.  But  the  Impres- 
sion Is  fleeting,  and  serves  only  to  give  a  greater 
acuteness  to  the  enjoyment  of  the  moment.  It  Is 
like  the  sadness  which  you  may  see  in  the  jester's 
eyes  when  a  merry  company  Is  laughing  at  his  sallies; 
his  lips  smile  and  his  jokes  are  gayer  because  in  the 
communion  of  laughter  he  finds  himself  more  Intol- 
erably alone.  For  Tahiti  Is  smiling  and  friendly;  It 
Is  like  a  lovely  woman  graciously  prodigal  of  her 
charm  and  beauty;  and  nothing  can  be  more  concilia; 
tory  than  the  entrance  Into  the  harbour  at  Papeete. 
The  schooners  moored  to  the  quay  are  trim  and 
neat,  the  little  town  along  the  bay  Is  white  and  ur- 
bane^ and  the  flamboyants,  scarlet  against  the  blue 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  2S3 

sky,  flaunt  their  colour  like  a  cry  of  passion.  They 
are  sensual  with  an  unashamed  violence  that  leaves 
you  breathless.  And  the  crowd  that  throngs  the 
wharf  as  the  steamer  draws  alongside  is  gay  and 
debonair;  it  is  a  noisy,  cheerful,  gesticulating  crowd. 
It  is  a  sea  of  brown  faces.  You  have  an  impres- 
sion of  coloured  movement  against  the  flaming  blue 
of  the  sky.  Everything  is  done  with  a  great  deal 
of  bustle,  the  unloading  of  the  baggage,  the  examina- 
tion of  the  customs;  and  everyone  seems  to  smile  a* 
you.    It  is  very  hot.    The  colour  dazzles  you. 


Chapter  XLVI 

1HAD  not  been  In  Tahiti  long  before  I  met  Cap- 
tain Nichols.  He  came  in  one  morning  when  I 
was  having  breakfast  on  the  terrace  of  the  hotel 
and  introduced  himself.  He  had  heard  that  I  was 
interested  in  Charles  Strickland,  and  announced  that 
he  was  come  to  have  a  talk  about  him.  They  are 
as  fond  of  gossip  in  Tahiti  as  in  an  English  village, 
and  one  or  two  enquiries  I  had  made  for  pictures  by 
Strickland  had  been  quickly  spread.  I  asked  the 
stranger  if  he  had  breakfasted. 

"Yes;  I  have  my  coffee  early,"  he  answered,  "but 
I  don't  mind  having  a  drop  of  whisky." 

I  called  the  Chinese  boy. 

"You  don't  think  it's  too  early?"  said  the  Captain. 

"You  and  your  liver  must  decide  that  between 
you,"  I  replied. 

"I'm  practically  a  teetotaller,"  he  said,  as  he 
poured  himself  out  a  good  half-tumbler  of  Canadian 
Qub. 

When  he  smiled  he  showed  broken  and  discoloured 
teeth.  He  was  a  very  lean  man,  of  no  more  than 
average  height,  with  gray  hair  cut  short  and  a 
stubbly  gray  moustache.  He  had  not  shaved  for  a 
couple  of  days.  His  face  was  deeply  lined,  burned 
brown  by  long  exposure  to  the  sun,  and  he  had  a 
pair  of  small  blue  eyes  which  were  astonishingly 
shifty.  They  moved  quickly,  following  my  smallest 
gesture,   and  they   gave   him   the   look  of  a  very 

234 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  235 

thorough  rogue.  But  at  the  moment  he  was  all 
heartiness  and  good-fellowship.  He  was  dressed  jn 
a  bedraggled  suit  of  khaki,  and  his  hands  woyld 
have  been  all  the  better  for  a  wash. 

"I  knew  Strickland  well,"  he  said,  as  he  leaned 
back  in  his  chair  and  lit  the  cigar  I  had  offered  him. 
"It's  through  me  he  came  out  to  the  islands." 

"Where  did  you  meet  him?"  I  asked. 

••In  Marseilles." 

"What  were  you  doing  there?" 

He  gave  me  an  ingratiating  smile. 

"Well,  I  guess  I  was  on  the  beach." 

My  friend's  appearance  suggested  that  he  was 
now  in  the  same  predicament,  and  I  prepared  myself 
to  cultivate  an  agreeable  acquaintance.  The  society 
of  beach-combers  always  repays  the  small  pains  you 
need  be  at  to  enjoy  it.  They  are  easy  of  approach 
and  affable  in  conversation.  They  seldom  put  on 
airs,  and  the  offer  of  a  drink  is  a  sure  way  to  their 
hearts.  You  need  no  laborious  steps  to  enter  upon 
familiarity  with  them,  and  you  can  earn  not  only 
their  confidence,  but  their  gratitude,  by  turning  an 
attentive  ear  to  their  discourse.  They  look  upon 
conversation  as  the  great  pleasure  of  life,  thereby, 
proving  the  excellence  of  their  civilisation,  and  for 
the  most  part  they  are  entertaining  talkers.  The 
extent  of  their  experience  is  pleasantly  balanced  by 
the  fertility  of  their  imagination.  It  cannot  be  said 
that  they  are  without  guile,  but  they  have  a  tolerant 
respect  for  the  law,  when  the  law  is  supported  by 
strength.  It  is  hazardous  to  play  poker  with  them, 
but  their  ingenuity  adds   a  peculiar  excitement  to 


S86  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

the  best  game  in  the  world.  I  came  to  know  Cap- 
tain Nichols  very  well  before  I  left  Tahiti,  and  I 
am  the  richer  for  his  acquaintance.  I  do  not  con- 
sider that  the  cigars  and  whisky  he  consumed  at 
my  expense  (he  always  refused  cocktails,  since  he 
was  practically  a  teetotaller) ,  and  the  few  dollars, 
borrowed  with  a  civil  air  of  conferring  a  favour 
upon  me,  that  passed  from  my  pocket  to  his,  were  in 
any  way  equivalent  to  the  entertainment  he  afforded 
me.  I  remained  his  debtor.  I  should  be  sorry  if 
my  conscience,  insisting  on  a  rigid  attention  to  the 
matter  in  hand,  forced  me  to  dismiss  him  in  a  couple 
of  lines. 

I  do  not  know  why  Captain  Nichols  first  left 
England.  It  was  a  matter  upon  which  he  was  reti- 
cent, and  with  persons  of  his  kidney  a  direct  ques- 
tion is  never  very  discreet.  He  hinted  at  undeserved 
misfortune,  and  there  is  no  doubt  that  he  looked 
upon  himself  as  the  victim  of  injustice.  My  fancy 
played  with  the  various  forms  of  fraud  and  violence, 
and  I  agreed  with  him  sympathetically  when  he 
remarked  that  the  authorities  in  the  old  country  were 
80  damned  technical.  But  it  was  nice  to  see  that  any 
unpleasantness  he  had  endured  in  his  native  land 
had  not  impaired  his  ardent  patriotism.  He  fre- 
quently declared  that  England  was  the  finest  country 
in  the  world,  sir,  and  he  felt  a  lively  superiority 
over  Americans,  Colonials,  Dagos,  Dutchmen,  and 
Kanakas. 

But  I  do  not  think  he  was  a  happy  man.  He  suf- 
fered from  dyspepsia,  and  he  might  often  be  seen 
sucking  a  tablet  of  pepsin;  in  the  morning  his  appe- 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  237 

tite  was  poor;  but  this  affliction  alone  would  hardly 
have  impaired  his  spirits.  He  had  a  greater  cause 
of  discontent  with  life  than  this.  Eight  years  before 
he  had  rashly  married  a  wife.  There  are  men  whom 
a  merciful  Providence  has  undoubtedly  ordained  to 
a  single  life,  but  who  from  wilfulness  or  through 
circumstances  they  could  not  cope  with  have  flown 
in  the  face  of  its  decrees.  There  is  no  object  more 
deserving  of  pity  than  the  married  bachelor.  Of 
such  was  Captain  Nichols.  I  met  his  wife.  She 
was  a  woman  of  twenty-eight,  I  should  thinlc,  though 
of  a  type  whose  age  is  always  doubtful;  for  she  can- 
not have  looked  different  when  she  was  twenty,  and 
at  forty  would  look  no  older.  She  gave  me  an  im- 
pression of  extraordinary  tightness.  Her  plain  face 
with  its  narrow  lips  was  tight,  her  skin  was  stretched 
tightly  over  her  bones,  her  smile  was  tight,  her  hair 
wa.s  tight,  her  clothes  were  tight,  and  the  white  drill 
she  wore  had  all  the  effect  of  black  bombazine.  I 
could  not  imagine  why  Captain  Nichols  had  married 
her,  and  having  married  her  why  he  had  not  deserted 
her.  Perhaps  he  had,  often,  and  his  melancholy 
arose  from  the  fact  that  he  could  never  succeed. 
However  far  he  went  and  In  howsoever  secret  a  place 
he  hid  himself,  I  felt  sure  that  Mrs.  Nichols,  Inex- 
orable as  fate  and  remorseless  as  conscfence,  would 
presently  rejoin  him.  He  could  as  little  escape  her 
as  the  cause  can  escape  the  effect. 

The  rogue,  like  the  artist  and  perhaps  the  gentle- 
man, belongs  to  no  class.  He  is  not  embarrassed 
by  the  sans  gene  of  the  hobo,  nor  put  out  of  coun- 
tenance by  the  etiquette  of  the  prince.     But  Mrs. 


.288  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

Nichols  belonged  to  the  well-defined  class,  of  late 
become  vocal,  which  is  known  as  the  lower-middle. 
Her  father,  in  fact,  was  a  policeman.  I  am  certain 
that  he  was  an  efficient  one.  I  do  not  know  what 
her  hold  was  on  the  Captain,  but  I  do  not  think  it 
was  love.  I  never  heard  her  speak,  but  it  may  be  that 
in  private  she  had  a  copious  conversation.  At  any 
rate,  Captain  Nichols  was  frightened  to  death  of  her: 
Sometimes,  sitting  with  me  on  the  terrace  of  the 
hotel,  he  would  become  conscious  that  she  was  walk- 
ing in  the  road  outside.  She  did  not  call  him;  she 
gave  no  sign  that  she  was  aware  of  his  existence ;  she 
merely  walked  up  and  down  composedly.  Then  a 
strange  uneasiness  would  seize  the  Captain;  he  would 
look  at  his  watch  and  sigh. 

"Well,  I  must  be  off,"  he  said. 

Neither  wit  nor  whisky  could  detain  him  then. 
Yet  he  was  a  man  who  had  faced  undaunted  hurri- 
cane and  typhoon,  and  would  not  have  hesitated  to 
fight  a  dozen  unarmed  niggers  with  nothing  but  a 
revolver  to  help  him.  Sometimes  Mrs.  Nichols 
would  send  her  daughter,  a  pale-faced,  sullen  child 
of  seven,  to  the  hotel. 

"Mother  wants  you,"  she  said.  In  a  whining  tone. 

"Very  well,  my  dear,"  said  Captain  Nichols. 

He  rose  to  his  feet  at  once,  and  accompanied  his 
daughter  along  the  road.  I  suppose  it  was  a  very 
pretty  example  of  the  triumph  of  spirit  over  mat- 
ter, and  so  my  digression  has  at  least  the  advantage 
of  a  moral. 


Chapter  XLVII 

I  HAVE  tried  to  put  some  connection  into  the 
various  things  Captain  Nichols  told  me  about 
Strickland,  and  I  here  set  them  down  In  the  best 
order  I  can.  They  made  one  another's  acquain- 
tance during  the  latter  part  of  the  winter  following 
my  last  meeting  with  Strickland  in  Paris.  How  he 
had  passed  the  intervening  months  I  do  not  know, 
but  life  must  have  been  very  hard,  for  Captain  Nich- 
ols saw  him  first  in  the  Asile  de  Nuit.  There  was 
a  strike  at  Marseilles  at  the  time,  and  Strickland, 
having  come  to  the  end  of  his  resources,  had  ap- 
parently found  it  impossible  to  earn  the  small  sum 
he  needed  to  keep  body  and  soul  together. 

The  Asile  de  Nuit  is  a  large  stone  building  where 
pauper  and  vagabond  may  get  a  bed  for  a  week, 
provided  their  papers  are  in  order  and  they  can 
persuade  the  friars  in  charge  that  they  are  working- 
men.  Captain  Nichols  noticed  Strickland  for  his 
size  and  his  singular  appearance  among  the  crowd 
that  waited  for  the  doors  to  open;  they  waited  list- 
lessly, some  walking  to  and  fro,  some  leaning  against 
the  wall,  and  others  seated  on  the  curb  with  their 
feet  in  the  gutter;  and  when  they  filed  into  the 
office  he  heard  the  monk  who  read  his  papers  address 
him  in  English.  But  he  did  not  have  a  chance  to 
speak  to  him,  since,  as  he  entered  the  common-room, 
a  monk  came  In  with  a  huge  Bible  in  his  arms, 
mounted  a  pulpit  which  was  at  the  end  of  the  room, 

239 


240  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

and  began  the  service  which  the  wretched  outcasts 
had  to  endure  as  the  price  of  their  lodging.  He 
and  Striclcland  were  assigned  to  different  rooms,  and 
when,  thrown  out  of  bed  at  five  in  the  morning  by 
a  stalwart  monk,  he  had  made  his  bed  and  washed 
his  face,  Strickland  had  already  disappeared.  Cap- 
tain Nichols  wandered  about  the  streets  for  an  hour 
of  bitter  cold,  and  then  made  his  way  to  the  Place 
Victor  Gelu,  where  the  sailor-men  are  wont  to  con- 
gregate. Dozing  against  the  pedestal  of  a  statue,  he 
saw  Strickland  again.  He  gave  him  a  kick  to  awaken 
him. 

"Come  and  have  breakfast,  mate,"  he  said. 

"Go  to  hell,"  answered  Strickland. 

I  recognised  my  friend's  limited  vocabulary,  and 
I  prepared  to  regard  Captain  Nichols  as  a  trust- 
worthy witness. 

"Busted?"  asked  the  Captain. 

"Blast  you,"  answered  Strickland. 

"Come  along  with  me.  I'll  get  you  some  break- 
fast." 

After  a  moment's  hesitation,  Strickland  scrambled 
to  his  feet,  and  together  they  went  to  the  Bouchee 
de  Pain,  where  the  hungry  are  given  a  wedge  of 
bread,  which  they  must  eat  there  and  then,  for  It  Is 
forbidden  to  take  It  away;  and  then  to  the  Culllere 
de  Soupe,  where  for  a  week,  at  eleven  and  four,  you 
may  get  a  bowl  of  thin,  salt  soup.  The  two  build- 
ings are  placed  far  apart,  so  that  only  the  starving 
should  be  tempted  to  make  use  of  them.  So  they 
had  breakfast,  and  so  began  the  queer  companion- 
ship of  Charles  Strickland  and  Captain  Nichols. 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  241 

They  must  have  spent  something  like  four  months 
at  Marseilles  in  one  another's  society.  Their  ca- 
reer was  devoid  of  adventure,  if  by  adventure  you 
mean  unexpected  or  thrilling  incident,  for  their  days 
were  occupied  in  the  pursuit  of  enough  money  to 
get  a  night's  lodging  and  such  food  as  would  stay 
the  pangs  of  hunger.  But  I  wish  I  could  give  here 
the  pictures,  coloured  and  racy,  which  Captain  Nich- 
ols' vivid  narrative  offered  to  the  imagination.  His 
account  of  their  discoveries  in  the  low  life  of  a  sea- 
port town  would  have  made  a  charming  book,  and 
in  the  various  characters  that  came  their  way  the 
student  might  easily  have  found  matter  for  a  very 
complete  dictionary  of  rogues.  But  I  must  content 
myself  with  a  few  paragraphs.  I  received  the  im- 
pression of  a  life  intense  and  brutal,  savage,  multi- 
coloured, and  vivacious.  It  made  the  Marseilles 
that  I  knew,  gesticulating  and  sunny,  with  its  com- 
fortable hotels  and  its  restaurants  crowded  with 
the  well-to-do,  tame  and  commonplace.  I  envied 
men  who  had  seen  with  their  own  eyes  the  sights 
that  Captain  Nichols  described. 

When  the  doors  of  the  Asile  de  Nult  were  closed 
to  them,  Strickland  and  Captain  Nichols  sought  the 
hospitality  of  Tough  Bill.  This  was  the  master 
of  a  sailors'  boarding-house,  a  huge  mulatto  with  a 
heavy  fist,  who  gave  the  stranded  mariner  food  and 
shelter  till  he  found  him  a  berth.  They  lived  with 
him  a  month,  sleeping  with  a  dozen  others,  Swedes, 
negroes,  Brazilians,  on  the  floor  of  the  two  bare 
rooms  In  his  house  which  he  assigned  to  his  charges; 
and  every  day  thev  went  with  him  to  the  Place  Victor 


242  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

Gelu,  whither  came  ships'  captains  In  search  of  a 
man.  He  was  married  to  an  American  woman,  obese 
and  slatternly,  fallen  to  this  pass  by  Heaven  knows 
what  process  of  degradation,  and  every  day  the 
boarders  took  it  in  turns  to  help  her  with  the  house- 
work. Captain  Nichols  looked  upon  it  as  a  smart 
piece  of  work  on  Strickland's  part  that  he  had  got 
out  of  this  by  painting  a  portrait  of  Tough  Bill. 
Tough  Bill  not  only  paid  for  the  canvas,  colours, 
and  brushes,  but  gave  Strickland  a  pound  of  smug- 
gled tobacco  into  the  bargain.  For  all  I  know,  this 
picture  may  still  adorn  the  parlour  of  the  tumble- 
down little  house  somewhere  near  the  Quai  de  la 
Joliette,  and  I  suppose  it  could  now  be  sold  for  fif- 
teen hundred  pounds.  Strickland's  idea  was  to  ship 
on  some  vessel  bound  for  Australia  or  New  Zealand, 
and  from  there  make  his  way  to  Samoa  or  Tahiti 
I  do  not  know  how  he  had  come  upon  the  notion  of 
going  to  the  South  Seas,  though  I  remember  tha^ 
his  Imagination  had  long  been  haunted  by  an  Island, 
all  green  and  sunny,  encircled  by  a  sea  more  blue 
than  Is  found  In  Northern  latitudes.  I  suppose  that 
he  clung  to  Captain  Nichols  because  he  was  acquaint- 
ed with  those  parts,  and  It  was  Captain  NIchoFs 
who  persuaded  him  that  he  would  be  more  comfort- 
able in  Tahiti. 

"You  see,  Tahiti's  French,"  he  explained  to  me. 
"And  the  French  aren't  so  damned  technical." 

I  thought  I  saw  his  point. 

Strickland  had  no  papers,  but  that  was  not  a  mat- 
ter to  disconcert  Tough  Bill  when  he  saw  a  profit  (he 
took  the  first  month's  wages  of  the  sailor  for  whom 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  24» 

he  found  a  berth),  and  he  provided  Strickland  with 
those  of  an  English  stoker  who  had  providentially 
died  on  his  hands.  But  both  Captain  Nichols  and 
Strickland  were  bound  East,  and  it  chanced  that  the 
only  opportunities  for  signing  on  were  with  ships 
sailing  West.  Twice  Strickland  refused  a  berth  on 
tramps  sailing  for  the  United  States,  and  once  on 
a  collier  going  to  Newcastle.  Tough  Bill  had  no 
patience  with  an  obstinacy  which  could  only  result 
in  loss  to  himself,  and  on  the  last  occasion  he  flung 
both  Strickland  and  Captain  Nichols  out  of  his  house 
without  more  ado.  They  found  themselves  once 
more  adrift. 

Tough  Bill's  fare  was  seldom  extravagant,  and 
you  rose  from  his  table  almost  as  hungry  as  you  sat 
down,  but  for  some  days  they  had  good  reason  to 
regret  it.  They  learned  what  hunger  was.  The 
Cuillere  de  Soupe  and  the  Asile  de  Nuit  were  both 
closed  to  them,  and  their  only  sustenance  was  the 
wedge  of  bread  which  the  Bouchee  de  Pain  provided. 
They  slept  where  they  could,  sometimes  in  an  empty 
truck  on  a  siding  near  the  station,  sometimes  in  a 
cart  behind  a  warehouse;  but  it  was  bitterly  cold, 
and  after  an  hour  or  two  of  uneasy  dozing  they 
would  tramp  the  streets  again.  What  they  felt  the 
lack  of  most  bitterly  was  tobacco,  and  Captain  Nich- 
ols, for  his  part,  could  not  do  without  it;  he  took 
to  hunting  the  "Can  o*  Beer,"  for  cigarette-ends  and 
the  butt-end  of  cigars  which  the  promenaders  of  the 
night  before  had  thrown  away. 

"I've  tasted  worse  smoking  mixtures  in  a  pipe," 
he  added,  with  a  philosophic  shrug  of  his  shoulders, 


244  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

as  he  took  a  couple  of  cigars  from  the  case  I  offered 
him,  putting  one  in  his  mouth  and  the  other  in  his 
pocket. 

Now  and  then  they  made  a  bit  of  money.  Some- 
times a  mail  steamer  would  come  in,  and  Captain 
Nichols,  having  scraped  acquaintance  with  the  time- 
keeper, would  suceed  in  getting  the  pair  of  them  a 
job  as  stevedores.  When  it  was  an  English  boat, 
they  would  dodge  into  the  forecastle  and  get  a  hearty 
breakfast  from  the  crew.  They  took  the  risk  of  run- 
ning against  one  of  the  ship's  officers  and  being 
hustled  down  the  gangway  with  the  toe  of  a  boot 
to  speed  their  going. 

"There's  no  harm  in  a  kick  in  the  hindquarters 
when  your  belly's  full,"  said  Captain  Nichols,  "and 
personally  I  never  take  it  in  bad  part.  An  officer's 
got  to  think  about  discipline." 

I  had  a  lively  picture  of  Captain  Nichols  flying 
headlong  down  a  narrow  gangway  before  the  up- 
lifted foot  of  an  angry  mate,  and,  like  a  true 
Englishman,  rejoicing  in  the  spirit  of  the  Mercantile 
Marine. 

There  were  often  odd  jobs  to  be  got  about  the 
fish-market.  Once  they  each  of  them  earned  a  franc 
by  loading  trucks  with  innumerable  boxes  of  oranges 
that  had  been  dumped  down  on  the  quay.  One  day 
they  had  a  stroke  of  luck:  one  of  the  boarding* 
masters  got  a  contract  to  paint  a  tramp  that  had 
come  in  from  Madagascar  round  the  Cape  of  Good 
Hope,  and  they  spent  several  days  on  a  plank  hang- 
ing over  the  side,  covering  the  rusty  hull  with  paint. 
It  was  a  situation  that  must  have  appealed  to  Stnck« 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  245 

land's  sardonic  humour.  I  asked  Captain  Nichols 
how  he  bore  himself  during  these  hardships. 

"Never  knew  him  say  a  cross  word,"  answered 
the  Captain.  "He'd  be  a  bit  surly  sometimes,  but 
when  we  hadn't  had  a  bite  since  morning,  and  we 
hadn't  even  got  the  price  of  a  lie  down  at  the  Chink's, 
he'd  be  as  lively  as  a  cricket." 

I  was  not  surprised  at  this.  Strickland  was  just 
the  man  to  rise  superior  to  circumstances,  when  they 
were  such  as  to  occasion  despondency  in  most;  but 
whether  this  was  due  to  equanimity  of  soul  or  to  con- 
tr^dictoriness  it  would  be  difficult  to  say. 

The  Chink's  Head  was  a  name  the  beach-combers 
gave  to  a  wretched  inn  off  the  Rue  Bouterie,  kept  by 
a  one-eyed  Chinaman,  where  for  six  sous  you  could 
sleep  in  a  cot  and  for  three  on  the  floor.  Here  they 
made  friends  with  others  in  as  desperate  condition 
as  themselves,  and  when  they  were  penniless  and 
the  night  was  bitter  cold,  they  were  glad  to  borrow 
from  anyone  who  had  earned  a  stray  franc  during 
the  day  the  price  of  a  roof  over  their  heads.  They 
were  not  niggardly,  these  tramps,  and  he  who  had 
money  did  not  hesitate  to  share  it  among  the  rest. 
They  belonged  to  all  the  countries  in  the  world,  but 
this  was  no  bar  to  good-fellowship;  for  they  felt 
themselves  freemen  of  a  country  whose  frontiers  in- 
clude them  all,  the  great  country  of  Cockaine. 

"But  I  guess  Strickland  was  an  ugly  customer 
when  he  was  roused,"  said  Captain  Nichols,  re- 
flectively. "One  day  we  ran  into  Tough  Bill  In  the 
Place,  and  he  asked  Charlie  for  the  papers  he'd  given 
him." 


24^  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

"  'You'd  better  come  and  take  them  if  you  want 
them/  says  Charlie. 

"He  was  a  powerful  fellow,  Tough  Bill,  but  he 
didn't  quite  like  the  look  of  Charlie,  so  he  began  curs- 
ing him.  He  called  him  pretty  near  every  name  he 
could  lay  hands  on,  and  when  Tough  Bill  began  curs- 
ing it  was  worth  listening  to  him.  Well,  Charlie 
stuck  it  for  a  bit,  then  he  stepped  forward  and  he 
just  said:  *Get  out,  you  bloody  swine.'  It  wasn't  so 
much  what  he  said,  but  the  way  he  said  it.  Tough 
Bill  never  spoke  another  word;  you  could  see  him 
go  yellow,  and  he  walked  away  as  if  he'd  remem- 
bered he  had  a  date." 

Strickland,  according  to  Captain  Nichols,  did  not 
use  exactly  the  words  I  have  given,  but  since  this 
book  is  meant  for  family  reading  I  have  thought  it 
better,  at  the  expense  of  truth,  to  put  into  his  mouth 
expressions  familiar  to  the  domestic  circle. 

Now,  Tough  Bill  was  not  the  man  to  put  up  with 
humiliation  at  the  hands  of  a  common  sailor.  His 
power  depended  on  his  prestige,  and  first  one,  thea 
another,  of  the  sailors  who  lived  In  his  house  told 
them  that  he  had  sworn  to  do  Strickland  In. 

One  night  Captain  Nichols  and  Strickland  were 
sitting  In  one  of  the  bars  of  the  Rue  Bouterle.  The 
Rue  Bouterle  Is  a  narrow  street  of  one-storeyed 
houses,  each  house  consisting  of  but  one  room;  they 
are  like  the  booths  In  a  crowded  fair  or  the  cages  of 
animals  In  a  circus.  At  every  door  you  see  a  woman. 
Some  lean  lazily  against  the  side-posts,  humming  to 
themselves  or  calling  to  the  passer-by  in  a  raucous 
roice,  and  some  listlessly  read.   They  are  FrentH, 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  24T 

Italian,  Spanish,  Japanese,  coloured;  some  are  fat 
and  some  are  thin;  and  under  the  thick  paint  on 
their  faces,  the  heavy  smears  on  their  eyebrows, 
and  the  scarlet  of  their  lips,  you  see  the  lines  of  age 
and  the  scars  of  dissipation.  Some  wear  black  shifts 
and  flesh-coloured  stockings;  some  with  curly  hair, 
dyed  yellow,  are  dressed  like  little  girls  in  short  mus- 
lin frocks.  Through  the  open  door  you  see  a  red- 
tiled  floor,  a  large  wooden  bed,  and  on  a  deal  table 
a  ewer  and  a  basin.  A  motley  crowd  saunters  along 
iht  streets — Lascars  off  a  P.  and  O.,  blond  North- 
men from  a  Swedish  barque,  Japanese  from  a  man- 
of-war,  English  sailors,  Spaniards,  pleasant-looking 
fellows  from  a  French  cruiser,  negroes  off  an  Ameri- 
can tramp.  By  day  it  is  merely  sordid,  but  at  night, 
lit  only  by  the  lamps  in  the  little  huts,  the  street  has 
a  sinister  beauty.  The  hideous  lust  that  pervades 
the  air  is  oppressive  and  horrible,  and  yet  there  is 
something  mysterious  in  the  sight  which  haunts  and 
troubles  you.  You  feel  I  know  not  what  primitive 
force  which  repels  and  yet  fascinates  you.  Here  all 
the  decencies  of  civilisation  are  swept  away,  and  you 
feel  that  men  are  face  to  face  with  a  sombre  reality. 
There  is  an  atmosphere  that  is  at  once  intense  and 
tragic. 

In  the  bar  in  which  Strickland  and  Nichols  sat  a 
mechanical  piano  was  loudly  grinding  out  dance 
music.  Round  the  room  people  were  sitting  at  table, 
Kere  half  a  dozen  sailors  uproariously  drunk,  there  a 
group  of  soldiers;  and  in  the  middle,  crowded  to- 
gether, couples  were  dancing.  Bearded  sailors  with 
brown  faces  and  large  horny  hands  clasped  their 


S48  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

partners  in  a  tight  embrace.  The  women  wore  noth- 
ing but  a  shift.  Now  and  then  two  sailors  would  get 
up  and  dance  together.  The  noise  was  deafening. 
People  were  singing,  shouting,  laughing;  and  when 
a  man  gave  a  long  kiss  to  the  girl  sitting  on  his  knees, 
cat-calls  from  the  English  sailors  increased  the  din. 
The  air  was  heavy  with  the  dust  beaten  up  by  the 
heavy  boots  of  the  men,  and  gray  with  smoke.  It 
was  very  hot.  Behind  the  bar  was  seated  a  woman 
nursing  her  baby.  The  waiter,  an  undersized  youth 
with  a  flat,  spotty  face,  hurried  to  and  fro  carrying 
a  tray  laden  with  glasses  of  beer. 

In  a  little  while  Tough  Bill,  accompanied  by  two 
huge  negroes,  came  in,  and  it  was  easy  to  see  that  he 
was  already  three  parts  drunk.  He  was  looking  for 
trouble.  He  lurched  against  a  table  at  which  three 
soldiers  were  sitting  and  knocked  over  a  glass  of 
beer.  There  was  an  angry  altercation,  and  the  owner 
of  the  bar  stepped  forward  and  ordered  Tough  Bill 
to  go.  He  was  a  hefty  fellow,  in  the  habit  of  stand- 
ing no  nonsense  from  his  customers,  and  Tough 
Bill  hesitated.  The  landlord  was  not  a  man  he 
cared  to  tackle,  for  the  police  were  on  his  side,  and 
with  an  oath  he  turned  on  his  heel.  Suddenly  he 
caught  sight  of  Strickland.  He  rolled  up  to  him. 
He  did  not  speak.  He  gathered  the  spittle  in  hig 
mouth  and  spat  full  in  Strickland's  face.  Strickland 
seized  his  glass  and  flung  it  at  him.  The  dancers 
stopped  suddenly  still.  There  was  an  instant  of 
complete  silence,  but  when  Tough  Bill  threw  himselfi 
on  Strickland  the  lust  of  battle  seized  them  all,  and  In 
a  moment  there  was  a  confused  scrimmage.    Tables 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  S4d 

were  overturned,  glasses  crashed  to  the  ground. 
There  was  a  hellish  row.  The  women  scattered  to 
the  door  and  behind  the  bar.  Passers-by  surged  in 
from  the  street.  You  heard  curses  in  every  tongue 
the  sound  of  blows,  cries;  and  in  the  middle  of  the 
room  a  dozen  men  were  fighting  with  all  their  might. 
On  a  sudden  the  police  rushed  in,  and  everyone  who 
could  made  for  the  door.  When  the  bar  was  more 
or  less  cleared.  Tough  Bill  was  lying  insensible  on 
the  floor  with  a  great  gash  in  his  head.  Captain 
Nichols  dragged  Strickland,  bleeding  from  a  wound 
in  his  arm,  his  clothes  in  rags,  into  the  street.  His 
own  face  was  covered  with  blood  from  a  blow  on  thfi 
nose. 

"I  guess  you'd  better  get  out  of  Marseilles  before 
Tough  Bill  comes  out  of  hospital,"  he  said  to  Strick- 
land, when  they  had  got  back  to  the  Chink's  Head 
and  were  cleaning  themselves. 

"This  beats  cock-fighting,"  said  Strickland. 

I  could  see  his  sardonic  smile. 

Captain  Nichols  was  anxious.  He  knew  Tough 
Bill's  vindictiveness.  Strickland  had  downed  the 
mulatto  twice,  and  the  mulatto,  sober,  was  a  man 
to  be  reckoned  with.  He  would  bide  his  time  stealth- 
ily. He  would  be  in  no  hurry,  but  one  night  Strick- 
land would  get  a  knife-thrust  in  his  back,  and  in  a 
day  or  two  the  corpse  of  a  nameless  beach-comber 
would  be  fished  out  of  the  dirty  water  of  the  harbour. 
Nichols  went  next  evening  to  Tough  Bill's  house  and 
made  enquiries.  He  was  in  hospital  still,  but  his 
wife,  who  had  been  to  see  him,  said  he  was  swear- 
Uig  hard  to  kill  Strickland  when  they  let  him  out. 


S50  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

!A  week  passed. 

"That's  what  I  always  say,"  reflected  Captain 
Nichols,  "when  you  hurt  a  man,  hurt  him  bad.  It 
gives  you  a  bit  of  time  to  look  about  and  think  what 
you'll  do  next." 

Then  Strickland  had  a  bit  of  luck.  A  ship  bound 
for  Australia  had  sent  to  the  Sailors'  Home  for  a 
stoker  in  place  of  one  who  had  thrown  himself  over- 
board off  Gibraltar  in  an  attack  of  delirium  tremens. 

"You  double  down  to  the  harbour,  my  lad,"  said 
the  Captain  to  Strickland,  "and  sign  on.  You've 
got  your  papers." 

Strickland  set  off  at  once,  and  that  was  the  last 
Captain  Nichols  saw  of  him.  The  ship  was  only  in 
port  for  six  hours,  and  in  the  evening  Captain 
Nichols  watched  the  vanishing  smoke  from  her  fun- 
nels as  she  ploughed  East  through  the  wintry  sea. 

I  have  narrated  all  this  as  best  I  could,  because  I 
like  the  contrast  of  these  episodes  with  the  life  that  I 
had  seen  Strickland  live  in  Ashley  Gardens  when  he 
was  occupied  with  stocks  and  shares ;  but  I  am  aware 
that  Captain  Nichols  was  an  outrageous  liar,  and  I 
dare  say  there  Is  not  a  word  of  truth  in  anything  he 
told  me.  I  should  not  be  surprised  to  learn  that  he 
had  never  seen  Strickland  In  his  life,  and  owed  his 
knowledge  of  Marseilles  to  the  pages  of  a  magazine. 


Chapter  XLVIII 

IT  is  here  that  I  purposed  to  end  my  book.  My 
first  idea  was  to  begin  it  with  the  account  of 
Strickland's  last  years  in  Tahiti  and  with  his  hor- 
rible death,  and  then  to  go  back  and  relate  what  I 
knew  of  his  beginnings.  This  I  meant  to  do,  not 
from  wilfulness,  but  because  I  wished  to  leave  Strick- 
land setting  out  with  I  know  not  what  fancies  in  his 
lonely  soul  for  the  unknown  islands  which  fired  his 
imagination.  I  liked  the  picture  of  him  starting  at 
the  age  of  forty-seven,  when  most  men  have  already 
settled  comfortably  in  a  groove,  for  a  new  world.  I 
saw  him,  the  sea  gray  under  the  mistral  and  foam^ 
flecked,  watching  the  vanishing  coast  of  France, 
which  he  was  destined  never  to  see  again;  and  I 
thought  there  was  something  gallant  in  his  bearing 
and  dauntless  In  his  soul.  I  wished  so  to  end  on  a 
note  of  hope.  It  seemed  to  emphasise  the  uncon- 
querable spirit  of  man.  But  I  could  not  manage  it. 
Somehow  I  could  not  get  into  my  story,  and  after 
trying  once  or  twice  I  had  to  give  it  up;  I  started 
from  the  beginning  in  the  usual  way,  and  made  up 
my  mind  I  could  only  tell  what  I  knew  of  Strickland's 
life  in  the  order  in  which  I  learnt  the  facts. 

Those  that  I  have  now  are  fragmentary.  I  am  In 
the  position  of  a  biologist  who  from  a  single  bone 
must  reconstruct  not  only  the  appearance  of  an  ex- 
tinct animal,  but  Its  habits.  Strickland  made  no  par- 
ticular Impression  on  the  people  who  came  In  contact 

251 


iOt  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

with  him  in  Tahiti.  To  them  he  was  no  more  than 
a  beach-comber  in  constant  need  of  money,  remark- 
able only  for  the  peculiarity  that  he  painted  pictures 
which  seemed  to  them  absurd;  and  it  was  not  till  he 
had  been  dead  for  some  years  and  agents  came  from 
the  dealers  in  Paris  and  Berlin  to  look  for  any  pic- 
tures which  might  still  remain  on  the  island,  that 
they  had  any  idea  that  among  them  had  dwelt  a 
man  of  consequence.  They  remembered  then  that 
they  could  have  bought  for  a  song  canvases  which 
now  were  worth  large  sums,  and  they  could  not  for- 
give themselves  for  the  opportunity  which  had  es- 
caped them.  There  was  a  Jewish  trader  called 
Cohen,  who  had  come  by  one  of  Strickland's  pictures 
in  a  singular  way.  He  was  a  little  old  Frenchman, 
with  soft  kind  eyes  and  a  pleasant  smile,  half  trader 
and  half  seaman,  who  owned  a  cutter  in  which  he 
wandered  boldly  among  the  Paumotus  and  the  Mar- 
quesas, taking  out  trade  goods  and  bringing  back 
copra,  shell,  and  pearls.  I  went  to  see  him  because 
I  was  told  he  had  a  large  black  pearl  which  he  was 
willing  to  sell  cheaply,  and  when  I  discovered  that 
it  was  beyond  my  means  I  began  to  talk  to  him 
about  Strickland.     He  had  known  him  well. 

"You  see,  I  was  interested  in  him  because  he 
was  a  painter,"  he  told  me.  "We  don't  get  many 
painters  in  the  islands,  and  I  was  sorry  for  him 
because  he  was  such  a  bad  one.  I  gave  him  his 
first  job.  I  had  a  plantation  on  the  peninsula,  and 
I  wanted  a  white  overseer.  You  never  get  any  work 
out  of  the  natives  unless  you  have  a  white  man 
over  them.     I  said  to  him:     'You'll  have  plenty  of 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  «55 

time  for  painting,  and  you  can  earn  a  bit  of  money.' 
I  knew  he  was  stamng,  but  I  offered  him  good 
wages." 

"I  can't  imagine  that  he  was  a  very  satisfactory 
overseer,"  I  said,  smiling. 

"I  made  allowances.  I  have  always  had  a  sym- 
pathy for  artists.  It  is  in  our  blood,  you  know. 
But  he  only  remained  a  few  months.  When  he  had 
enough  money  to  buy  paints  and  canvases  he  left 
me.  The  place  had  got  hold  of  him  by  then,  and 
he  wanted  to  get  away  into  the  bush.  But  I  con- 
tinued to  see  him  now  and  then.  He  would  turn 
up  in  Papeete  every  few  months  and  stay  a  little 
while;  he'd  get  money  out  of  someone  or  other 
and  then  disappear  again.  It  was  on  one  of  these 
visits  that  he  came  to  me  and  asked  for  the  loan 
of  two  hundred  francs.  He  looked  as  if  he  hadn't 
had  a  meal  for  a  'week,  and  I  hadn't  the  heart  to 
refuse  him.  Of  course,  I  never  expected  to  see  my 
money  again.  Well,  a  year  later  he  came  to  see 
me  once  more,  and  he  brought  a  picture  with  him. 
He  did  not  mention  the  money  he  owed  me,  but 
he  said:  'Here  is  a  picture  of  your  plantation 
that  I've  painted  for  you.'  I  looked  at  it.  I  did 
not  know  what  to  say,  but  of  course  I  thanked 
him,  and  when  he  had  gone  away  I  showed  it  to  my 
wife." 

"What  was  it  like?"  I  asked. 

"Do  not  ask  me.  I  could  not  make  head  or  tail 
of  it.  I  never  saw  such  a  thing  in  my  life.  'What 
shall  we  do  with  it?'  I  said  to  my  wife.  'We  can 
never  hang  it  up,'  she  said.     'People  would  laugh' 


S5«  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

at  us.'  So  she  took  It  Into  an  attic  and  put  It 
away  with  all  sorts  of  rubbish,  for  my  wife  can 
never  throw  anything  away.  It  Is  her  mania.  Then, 
imagine  to  yourself,  just  before  the  war  my  brother 
wrote  to  me  from  Paris,  and  said:  'Do  you  know 
anything  about  an  English  painter  who  lived  in 
Tahiti?  It  appears  that  he  was  a  genius,  and  his 
pictures  fetch  large  prices.  See  if  you  can  lay  your 
hands  on  anything  and  send  it  to  me.  There's 
money  to  be  made.'  So  I  said  to  my  wife:  'What 
about  that  picture  that  Strickland  gave  me?'  Is  it 
possible  that  it  Is  still  in  the  attic?'  'Without  doubt,' 
she  answered,  'for  you  know  that  I  never  throw 
anything  away.  It  is  my  mania.'  We  went  up 
to  the  attic,  and  there,  among  I  know  not  what 
rubbish  that  had  been  gathered  during  the  thirty 
years  we  have  inhabited  that  house,  was  the  pic- 
ture. I  looked  at  It  again,  and  I  said:  'Who  would 
kave  thought  that  the  overseer  of  my  plantation 
on  the  peninsula,  to  whom  I  lent  two  hundred  francs, 
had  genius?  Do  you  see  anything  in  the  picture?* 
*No,'  she  said,  'It  does  not  resemble  the  plantation 
and  I  have  never  seen  cocoa-nuts  with  blue  leaves; 
but  they  are  mad  In  Paris,  and  It  may  be  that  your 
brother  will  be  able  to  sell  It  for  the  two  hundred 
francs  you  lent  Strickland.'  Well,  we  packed  it  up 
and  we  sent  It  to  my  brother.  And  at  last  I  re- 
ceived a  letter  from  him.  What  do  you  think  he 
said?  'I  received  your  picture,'  he  said,  'and  I 
confess  I  thought  it  was  a  joke  that  you  had  played 
on  me.  I  would  not  have  given  the  cost  of  post- 
age for  the  picture.     I  was  half  afraid  to  show  it 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  25S 

to  the  gentleman  who  had  spoken  to  me  ahout  it. 
Imagine  my  surprise  when  he  said  it  was  a  master- 
piece, and  offered  me  thirty  thousand  francs.  I 
dare  say  he'  would  have  paid  more,  but  frankly 
I  was  so  taken  aback  that  I  lost  my  head;  I  accepted 
the  offer  before  I  was  able  to  collect  myself.' " 

Then  Monsieur  Cohen  said  an  admirable  thing. 

^'I  wish  that  poor  Strickland  had  been  still  alive. 
I  wonder  what  he  would  have  said  when  I  gave 
him  twenty-nine  thousand  eight  hundred  francs  for 
his  picture." 


Chapter  XLIX 

1  LIVED  at  the  Hotel  de  la  Fleur,  and  Mrs. 
Johnson,  the  proprietress,  had  a  sad  story  to 
tell  of  lost  opportunity.  After  Strickland's  death 
certain  of  his  effects  were  sold  by  auction  in  the 
market-place  at  Papeete,  and  she  went  to  it  her- 
self because  there  was  among  the  truck  an  American 
stove  she  wanted.  She  paid  twenty-seven  francs 
for  it. 

*'There  were  a  dozen  pictures,"  she  told  me,  "but 
they  were  unframed,  and  nobody  wanted  them.  Some 
of  them  sold  for  as  much  as  ten  francs,  but  mostly 
they  went  for  five  or  six.  Just  think,  if  I  had 
bought  them  I  should  be  a  rich  woman  now.'* 

But  Tiare  Johnson  would  never  under  any  cir- 
cumstances have  been  rich.  She  could  not  keep 
money.  The  daughter  of  a  native  and  an  English 
sea-captain  settled  in  Tahiti,  when  I  knew  her  she 
was  a  woman  of  fifty,  who  looked  older,  and  of 
enormous  proportions.  Tall  and  extremely  stoujt, 
she  would  have  been  of  Imposing  presence  if  the 
great  good-nature  of  her  face  had  not  made  it  im- 
possible for  her  to  express  anything  but  kindliness. 
Her  arms  were  like  legs  of  mutton,  her  breasts 
like  giant  cabbages;  her  face,  broad  and  fleshy, 
gave  you  an  impression  of  almost  indecent  naked- 
ness, and  vast  chin  succeeded  to  vast  chin.  I  do 
not  know  how  many  of  them  there  were.  They  fell 
away  voluminously  into   the   capaciousness   of  her 

256 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  257 

bosom.  She  was  dressed  usually  In  a  pink  Mother 
Hubbard,  and  she  wore  all  day  long  a  large  straw 
hat  But  when  she  let  down  her  hair,  which  she 
did  now  and  then,  for  she  was  vain  of  it,  you  saw 
that  it  was  long  and  dark  and  curly;  and  her  eyes 
had  remained  young  and  vivacious.  Her  laughter 
was  the  most  catching  I  ever  heard;  it  would  begin,! 
a  low  peal  in  her  throat,  and  would  grow  louder  and 
louder  till  her  whole  vast  body  shook.  She  loved 
three  things — a  joke,  a  glass  of  wine,  and  a  hand- 
some man.    To  have  known  her  is  a  privilege. 

She  was  the  best  cook  on  the  island,  and  she 
adored  good  food.  From  morning  till  night  you 
saw  her  sitting  on  a  low  chair  in  the  kitchen,  sur- 
rounded by  a  Chinese  cook  and  two  or  three  native 
girls,  giving  her  orders,  chatting  sociably  with  all 
and  sundry,  and  tasting  the  savoury  messes  she  de- 
vised. When  she  wished  to  do  honour  to  a  friend 
she  cooked  the  dinner  with  her  own  hands.  Hos- 
pitality was  a  passion  with  her,  and  there  was  no 
one  on  the  island  who  need  go  without  a  dinner 
when  there  was  anything  to  eat  at  the  Hotel  de  la 
Tleur.  She  never  turned  her  customers  out  of  Her 
house  because  they  did  not  pay  their  bills.  She  al- 
ways hoped  they  would  pay  when  they  could.  There 
was  one  man  there  who  had  fallen  on  adversity,  and 
to  him  she  had  given  board  and  lodging  for  several 
months.  When  the  Chinese  laundryman  refused  to 
wash  for  him  without  payment  she  had  sent  his 
things  to  be  washed  with  hers.  She  could  not  allow 
the  poor  fellow  to  go  about  in  a  dirty  shirt,  she 
said,  and  since  he  was  a  man,  and  men  must  smoke, 


i5S  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

she  gave  him  a  franc  a  day  for  cigarettes.  She 
used  him  with  the  same  affability  as  those  of  her 
chents  who  paid  their  bills  once  a  week. 

Age  and  obesity  had  made  her  inapt  for  love,  but 
she  took  a  keen  interest  in  the  amatory  affairs  of. 
the  young.  She  looked  upon  venery  as  the  natural 
occupation  for  men  and  women,  and  was  ever  ready, 
with  precept  and  example  from  her  own  wide  ex- 
perience. 

"I  was  not  fifteen  when  my  father  found  that  I 
had  a  lover,"  she  said.  "He  was  third  mate  on  the 
Tropic  Bird.    A  good-looking  boy." 

She  sighed  a  little.  They  say  a  woman  always 
remembers  her  first  lover  with  affection;  but  per- 
haps she  does  not  always  remember  him. 

"My  father  was  a  sensible  man." 

"What  did  he  do?"  I  asked. 

"He  thrashed  me  within  an  Inch  of  my  life,  and 
then  he  made  me  marry  Captain  Johnson.  I  did 
not  mind.  He  was  older,  of  course,  but  he  was 
good-looking  too." 

Tiare — her  father  had  called  her  by  the  name  of 
the  white,  scented  flower  which,  they  tell  you,  if  you 
have  once  smelt,  will  always  draw  you  back  to  Tahiti 
in  the  end,  however  far  you  may  have  roamed — 
Tiare  remembered  Strickland  very  well. 

"He  used  to  come  here  sometimes,  and  I  used 
to  see  him  walking  about  Papeete.  I  was  sorry 
for  him,  he  was  so  thin,  and  he  never  had  any  money. 
When  I  heard  he  was  in  town,  I  used  to  send  a  boy 
to  find  him  and  make  him  come  to  dinner  with  me. 
I  got  him  a  job  once  or  twice,  but  he  couldn't  stick 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  259 

to  anything.  After  a  little  while  he  wanted  to  get 
back  to  the  bush,  and  one  morning  he  would  be 
gone." 

Strickland  reached  Tahiti  about  six  months  after 
he  left  Marseilles.  He  worked  his  passage  on  a  sail- 
ing vessel  that  was  making  the  trip  from  Auckland 
to  San  Francisco,  and  he  arrived  with  a  box  of 
paints,  an  easel,  and  a  dozen  canvases.  He  had  a 
few  pounds  in  his  pocket,  for  he  had  found  work 
in  Sydney,  and  he  took  a  small  room  in  a  native 
house  outside  the  town.  I  think  the  moment  he 
reached  Tahiti  he  felt  himself  at  home.  Tiare  told 
me  that  he  said  to  her  once : 

"I'd  been  scrubbing  the  deck,  and  all  at  once  a 
chap  said  to  me :  'Why,  there  it  is.'  And  I  looked 
up  and  I  saw  the  outline  of  the  island.  I  knew 
right  away  that  there  was  the  place  I'd  been  look- 
ing for  all  my  life.  Then  we  came  near,  and  I 
seemed  to  recognise  it.  Sometimes  when  I  walk 
about  it  all  seems  familiar.  I  could  swear  I've  lived 
here  before." 

"Sometimes  it  takes  them  like  that,"  said  Tiare. 
"I've  known  men  come  on  shore  for  a  few  hours 
while  their  ship  was  taking  in  cargo,  and  never  go 
back.  And  I've  known  men  who  came  here  to  be 
in  an  office  for  a  year,  and  they  cursed  the  place, 
and  when  they  went  away  they  took  their  dying  oath 
they'd  hang  themselves  before  they  came  back  again, 
and  in  six  months  you'd  see  them  land  once  more» 
and  they'd  tell  you  they  couldn't  live  anywhere  else." 


Chapter  L 

1HAVE  an  idea  that  some  men  are  born  out  of 
their  due  place.  Accident  has  cast  them  amid 
certain  surroundings,  but  they  have  always  a  nos- 
talgia for  a  home  they  know  not.  They  are  stran- 
gers in  their  birthplace,  and  the  leafy  lanes  they  have 
known  from  childhood  or  the  populous  streets  in 
which  they  have  played,  remain  but  a  place  of  pass- 
age. They  may  spend  their  whole  lives  aliens  among 
their  kindred  and  remain  aloof  among  the  only 
scenes  they  have  ever  known.  Perhaps  it  is  this 
sense  of  strangeness  that  sends  men  far  and  wide 
in  the  search  for  something  permanent,  to  which 
they  may  attach  themselves.  Perhaps  some  deep- 
rooted  atavism  urges  the  wanderer  back  to  lands 
which  his  ancestors  left  in  the  dim  beginnings  of 
history.  Sometimes  a  man  hits  upon  a  place  to 
which  he  mysteriously  feels  that  he  belongs.  Here 
is  the  home  he  sought,  and  he  will  settle  amid  scenes 
that  he  has  never  seen  before,  among  men  he  has 
never  known,  as  though  they  were  familiar  to  him 
from  his  birth.     Here  at  last  he  finds  rest. 

I  told  Tiare  the  story  of  a  man  I  had  known 
at  St.  Thomas's  Hospital.  He  was  a  Jew  named 
Abraham,  a  blond,  rather  stout  young  man,  shy  and 
very  unassuming;  but  he  had  remarkable  gifts.  He 
entered  the  hospital  with  a  scholarship,  and  during 
the  five  years  of  the  curriculum  gained  every  prize 
that  was  open  to  him.     He  was  made  house-phy- 

260 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  261 

siclan  and  house-surgeon.  His  brilliance  was  allowed 
by  all.  Finally  he  was  elected  to  a  position  on  the 
staff,  and  his  career  was  assured.  So  far  as  human 
things  can  be  predicted,  it  was  certain  that  he  would 
rise  to  the  greatest  heights  of  his  profession.  Hon- 
ours and  wealth  awaited  him.  Before  he  entered 
upon  his  new  duties  he  wished  to  take  a  holiday, 
and,  having  no  private  means,  he  went  as  surgeon 
on  a  tramp  steamer  to  the  Levant.  It  did  not  gen- 
erally carry  a  doctor,  but  one  of  the  senior  surgeons 
at  the  hospital  knew  a  director  of  the  line,  and  Abra- 
ham was  taken  as  a  favour. 

In  a  few  weeks  the  authorities  received  his  resigna- 
tion of  the  coveted  position  on  the  staff.  It  created 
profound  astonishment,  and  wild  rumours  were  cur- 
rent. Whenever  a  man  does  anything  unexpected, 
his  fellows  ascribe  it  to  the  most  discreditable  mo- 
tives. But  there  was  a  man  ready  to  step  Into  Abra- 
ham's shoes,  and  Abraham  was  forgotten.  Nothing 
more  was  heard  of  him.     He  vanished. 

It  was  perhaps  ten  years  later  that  one  morning  on 
board  ship,  about  to  land  at  Alexandria,  I  was  bid- 
den to  line  up  with  the  other  passengers  for  the  doc- 
tor's examination.  The  doctor  was  a  stout  man  In 
shabby  clothes,  and  when  he  took  off  his  hat  I  no- 
ticed that  he  was  very  bald.  I  had  an  Idea  that  I 
had  seen  him  before.     Suddenly  I  remembered. 

"Abraham,"  I  said. 

He  turned  to  me  with  a  puzzled  look,  and  then, 
recognizing  me,  seized  my  hand.  After  expressions 
of  surprise  on  either  side,  hearing  that  I  meant  to 
spend  the  night  In  Alexandria,  he  asked  me  to  dine 


262  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

with  him  at  the  English  Club.  When  we  met  again 
I  declared  my  astonishment  at  finding  him  there.  It 
was  a  very  modest  position  that  he  occupied,  and 
there  was  about  him  an  air  of  straitened  circumstance. 
Then  he  told  me  his  story.  When  he  set  out  on  his 
holiday  in  the  Mediterranean  he  had  every  intention 
of  returning  to  London  and  his  appointment  at  St. 
Thomas's.  One  morning  the  tramp  docked  at  Alex- 
andria, and  from  the  deck  he  looked  at  the  city, 
white  in  the  sunlight,  and  the  crowd  on  the  wharf; 
he  saw  the  natives  in  their  shabby  gabardines,  the 
blacks  from  the  Soudan,  the  noisy  throng  of  Greeks 
and  Italians,  the  grave  Turks  In  tarbooshes,  the  sun- 
shine and  the  blue  sky;  and  something  happened  to 
him.  He  could  not  describe  It.  It  was  like  a  thun- 
der-clap, he  said,  and  then,  dissatisfied  with  this,  he 
said  It  was  like  a  revelation.  Something  seemed  to 
twl^  his  heart,  and  suddenly  he  felt  an  exultation, 
d  sense  of  wonderful  freedom.  He  felt  himself  at 
home,  and  he  made  up  his  mind  there  and  then,  in 
a  minute,  that  he  would  live  the  rest  of  his  life  in 
Alexandria.  He  had  no  great  difficulty  in  leaving 
the  ship,  and  In  twenty-four  hours,  with  all  his  be- 
longings, he  was  on  shore. 

"The  Captain  must  have  thought  you  as  mad  as 
a  hatter,"  I  smiled. 

"I  didn't  care  what  anybody  thought.  It  wasn't 
I  that  acted,  but  something  stronger  within  me.  I 
thought  I  would  go  to  a  little  Greek  hotel,  while  I 
looked  about,  and  I  felt  I  knew  where  to  find  one. 
And  do  you  know,  I  walked  straight  there,  and  when 
I  saw  It,  I  recognised  It  at  once." 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  20S 

"Had  you  been  to  Alexandria  before?" 
"No;  I'd  never  been  out  of  England  in  my  life." 
Presently  he  entered  the  Government  service,  and 
there  he  had  been  ever  since. 
"Have  you  never  regretted  it?" 
"Never,  not  for  a  minute.     I  earn  just  enough  to 
live  upon,  and  I'm   satisfied.     I   ask  nothing  more 
than  to  remain  as  I  am  till  I  die.     I've  had  a  won- 
derful life." 

I  left  Alexandria  next  day,  and  I  forgot  about 
Abraham  till  a  little  while  ago,  when  I  was  dining 
with  another  old  friend  in  the  profession.  Alec  Car- 
mlchael,  who  was  In  England  on  short  leave.  I  ran 
across  him  in  the  street  and  congratulated  him  on  the 
knighthood  with  which  his  eminent  services  during 
the  war  had  been  rewarded.  We  arranged  to  spend 
an  evening  together  for  old  time's  sake,  and  when 
I  agreed  to  dine  with  him,  he  proposed  that  he  should 
ask  nobody  else,  so  that  we  could  chat  without  In- 
terruption. He  had  a  beautiful  old  house  in  Queen 
Arme  Street,  and  being  a  man  of  taste  he  had  fur- 
nished it  admirably.  On  the  walls  of  the  dining- 
room  I  saw  a  charming  Bellotto,  and  there  was  a 
pair  of  Zoffanys  that  I  envied.  When  his  wife,  a 
tall,  lovely  creature  In  cloth  of  gold,  had  left  us, 
I  remarked  laughingly  on  the  change  in  his  present 
circumstances  from  those  when  we  had  both  been 
medical  students.  We  had  looked  upon  It  then  as  an 
extravagance  to  dine  In  a  shabby  Italian  restaurant 
in  the  Westminster  Bridge  Road.  Now  Alec  Car- 
michael  was  on  the  staff  of  half  a  dozen  hospitals. 
I  should  think  he  earned  ten  thousand  a  year,  an3 


264  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

his  knighthood  was  but  the  first  of  the  honours 
which  must  inevitably  fall  to  his  lot. 

"I've  done  pretty  well,"  he  said,  "but  the  strange 
thing  is  that  I  owe  it  all  to  one  piece  of  luck." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

"Well,  do  you  remember  Abraham?  He  was  the 
man  who  had  the  future.  When  we  were  students 
he  beat  me  all  along  the  line.  He  got  the  prizes 
and  the  scholarships  that  I  went  in  for.  I  always 
played  second  fiddle  to  him.  If  he'd  kept  on  he'd 
be  in  the  position  I'm  in  now.  That  man  had  a 
genius  for  surgery.  No  one  had  a  look  in  with 
him.  When  he  was  appointed  Registrar  at  Thom- 
as's I  hadn't  a  chance  of  getting  on  the  staff.  I 
should  have  had  to  become  a  G.P.,  and  you  know, 
what  likelihood  there  is  for  a  G.P.  ever  to  get  out 
of  the  common  rut.  But  Abraham  fell  out,  and  I 
got  the  job.     That  gave  me  my  opportunity." 

"I  dare  say  that's  true." 

"It  was  just  luck.  I  suppose  there  was  some  kink 
in  Abraham.  Poor  devil,  he's  gone  to  the  dogs  al- 
together. He's  got  some  twopenny-halfpenny  job 
In  the  medical  at  Alexandria — sanitary  officer  or 
something  like  that.  I'm  told  he  lives  with  an  ugly 
old  Greek  woman  and  has  half  a  dozen  scrofulous 
kids.  The  fact  is,  I  suppose,  that  it's  not  enough 
to  have  brains.  The  thing  that  counts  is  character. 
Abraham  hadn't  got  character." 

Character?  I  should  have  thought  it  needed  a 
good  deal  of  character  to  throw  up  a  career  after 
half  an  hour's  meditation,  because  you  saw  in  an- 
other way  of  living  a  more  intense  significance.    And 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  265 

it  required  still  more  character  never  to  regret  the 
sudden  step.  But  I  said  nothing,  and  Alec  Car- 
michael  proceeded  reflectively: 

"Of  course  it  would  be  hypocritical  for  me  to 
pretend  that  I  regret  what  Abraham  did.  After  all, 
I've  scored  by  it."  He  puffed  luxuriously  at  the  long 
Corona  he  was  smoking.  "But  if  I  weren't  person- 
ally concerned  I  should  be  sorry  at  the  waste.  It 
seems  a  rotten  thing  that  a  man  should  make  such 
a  hash  of  life." 

I  wondered  If  Abraham  really  had  made  a  hash 
of  life.  Is  to  do  5vhat  you  most  want,  to  live  under 
the  conditions  that  please  you,  in  peace  with  your- 
self, to  make  a  hash  of  life;  and  is  it  success  to  be 
an  eminent  surgeon  with  ten  thousand  a  year  and 
a  beautiful  wife?  I  suppose  It  depends  on  what 
meaning  you  attach  to  life,  the  claim  which  you  ac- 
knowledge to  society,  and  the  claim  of  the  individual. 
But  again  I  held  my  tongue,  for  who  am  I  to  argue 
with  a  knight? 


Chapter  LI 

TIARE,  when  I  told  her  this  story,  praised  my 
prudence,  and  for  a  few  minutes  we  worked  in 
silence,  for  we  were  shelling  peas.  Then  her 
eyes,  always  alert  for  the  affairs  of  her  kitchen,  fell 
on  some  action  of  the  Chinese  cook  which  aroused 
her  violent  disapproval.  She  turned  on  him  with 
a  torrent  of  abuse.  The  Chink  was  not  backward 
to  defend  himself,  and  a  very  lively  quarrel  ensued. 
They  spoke  in  the  native  language,  of  which  I  had 
learnt  but  half  a  dozen  words,  and  it  sounded  as 
though  the  world  would  shortly  come  to  an  end; 
but  presently  peace  was  restored  and  Tiare  gave 
the  cook  a  cigarette.  They  both  smoked  comfort- 
ably. 

"Do  you  know,  it  was  I  who  found  him  his  wife?" 
said  Tiare  suddenly,  with  a  smile  that  spread  all 
over  her  immense  face. 

"The  cook?" 

"No,  Strickland." 

"But  he  had  one  already." 

"That  is  what  he  said,  but  I  told  him  she  was  in 
England,  and  England  is  at  the  other  end  of  the 
ivorld." 

"True,"  I  replied. 

"He  would  come  to  Papeete  every  two  or  three 

months,  when  he  wanted  paints  or  tobacco  or  money, 

and  then  he  would  wander  about  like  a  lost  dog.     I 

'was  sorry  for  him.     I  had  a  girl  here  then  called 

266 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  26T 

Ata  to  do  the  rooms ;  she  was  some  sort  of  a  relation 
of  mine,  and  her  father  and  mother  were  dead,  so 
I  had  her  to  live  with  me.  Strickland  used  to  come 
here  now  and  then  to  have  a  square  meal  or  to  play 
chess  with  one  of  the  boys.  I  noticed  that  she  looked 
at  him  when  he  came,  and  I  asked  her  if  she  liked 
him.  She  said  she  liked  him  well  enough.  You 
know  what  these  girls  are;  they're  always  pleased 
to  go  with  a  white  man." 

"Was  she  a  native?"  I  asked. 

"Yes;  she  hadn't  a  drop  of  white  blood  in  her. 
Well,  after  I'd  talked  to  her  I  sent  for  Strickland, 
and  I  said  to  him :  'Strickland,  it's  time  for  you  to 
settle  down.  A  man  of  your  age  shouldn't  go  play- 
ing about  with  the  girls  down  at  the  front.  They're 
bad  lots,  and  you'll  come  to  no  good  with  them. 
You've  got  no  money,  and  you  can  never  keep  a  job 
for  more  than  a  month  or  two.  No  one  will  employ 
you  now.  You  say  you  can  always  live  in  the  bush 
with  one  or  other  of  the  natives,  and  they're  glad 
to  have  you  because  you're  a  white  man,  but  it's  not 
decent  for  a  white  man.  Now,  listen  to  me,  Strick- 
land.' " 

Tiare  mingled  French  with  English  in  her  con- 
versation, for  she  used  both  languages  with  equal 
facility.  She  spoke  them  with  a  singing  accent 
which  was  not  unpleasing.  You  felt  that  a  bird 
would  speak  In  these  tones  if  it  could  speak  Eng- 
lish. 

"  'Now,  what  do  you  say  to  marrying  Ata?  She's 
a  good  girl  and  she's  only  seventeen.  She's  never 
been  promiscuous  like  some  of  these  girls — a  cap- 


268  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

tain  or  a  first  mate,  yes,  but  she's  never  been  touched 
by  a  native.  Elle  se  respecte,  vois-tu.  The  purser 
of  the  Oahu  told  me  last  journey  that  he  hadn't  met 
a  nicer  girl  in  the  islands.  It's  time  she  settled  down 
too,  and  besides,  the  captains  and  the  first  mates 
like  a  change  now  and  then.  I  don't  keep  my  girls 
too  long.  She  has  a  bit  of  property  down  by  Tara- 
vao,  just  before  you  come  to  the  peninsula,  and  with 
copra  at  the  price  it  is  now  you  could  live  quite  com- 
fortably. There's  a  house,  and  you'd  have  all  the 
time  you  wanted  for  your  painting.  What  do  you 
say  to  it?" 

Tiare  paused  to  take  breath. 

"It  was  then  he  told  me  of  his  wife  in  England. 
*My  poor  Strickland,'  I  said  to  him,  'they've  all  got 
a  wife  somewhere ;  that  is  generally  why  they  come  to 
the  islands.  Ata  is  a  sensible  girl,  and  she  doesn^t 
expect  any  ceremony  before  the  Mayor.  She's  a 
Protestant,  and  you  know  they  don't  look  upon  these 
things  like  the  Catholics.' 

"Then  he  said :  'But  what  does  Ata  say  to  it?'  'It 
appears  that  she  has  a  heguin  for  you,'  I  said.  'She's 
willing  if  you  are.  Shall  I  call  her?'  He  chuckled 
in  a  funny,  dry  way  he  had,  and  I  called  her.  She 
knew  what  I  was  talking  about,  the  hussy,  and  I  saw 
her  out  of  the  corner  of  my  eyes  listening  with  all 
her  ears,  while  she  pretended  to  iron  a  blouse  that 
she  had  been  washing  for  me.  She  came.  She  was 
laughing,  but  I  could  see  that  she  was  a  little  shy, 
and  Strickland  looked  at  her  without  speaking." 

"Was  she  pretty?"  I  asked. 

"Not  bad.     But  you  must  have  seen  pictures  of 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  2«9 

her.  He  painted  her  over  and  over  again,  some- 
times with  a  pareo  on  and  sometimes  with  nothing  at 
all.  Yes,  she  was  pretty  enough.  And  she  knew 
how  to  cook.  I  taught  her  myself.  I  saw  Strick- 
land was  thinking  of  it,  so  I  said  to  him :  'I've  given 
her  good  wages  and  she's  saved  them,  and  the  cap- 
tains and  the  first  mates  she's  known  have  given  her 
a  little  something  now  and  then.  She's  saved  sev- 
eral hundred  francs.' 

"He  pulled  his  great  red  beard  and  smiled. 

"  'Well,  Ata,'  he  said,  'do  you  fancy  me  for  a  hus- 
band.' 

"She  did  not  say  anything,  but  just  giggled. 

"  'But  I  tell  you,  my  poor  Strickland,  the  girl  has 
a  heguin  for  you,'  I  said. 

"  'I  shall  beat  you,'  he  said,  looking  at  her. 

"  'How  else  should  I  know  you  loved  me,'  she  an- 
swered." 

Tiare  broke  off  her  narrative  and  addressed  her- 
self to  me  reflectively. 

"My  first  husband,  Captain  Johnson,  used  to 
thrash  me  regularly.  He  was  a  man.  He  was 
handsome,  six  foot  three,  and  when  he  was  drunk 
there  was  no  holding  him.  I  would  be  black 
and  blue  all  over  for  days  at  a  time.  Oh,  I 
cried  when  he  died.  I  thought  I  should  never 
get  over  it.  But  it  wasn't  till  I  married  George 
Rainey  that  I  knew  what  I'd  lost.  You  can  never 
tell  what  a  man  is  like  till  you  live  with  him.  I've 
never  been  so  deceived  in  a  man  as  I  was  in  George 
Rainey.  He  was  a  fine,  upstanding  fellow  too.  He 
was  nearly  as  tall  as  Captain  Johnson,  and  he  looked 


270  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

strong  enough.  But  It  was  all  on  the  surface.  He 
never  drank.  He  never  raised  his  hand  to  me.  He 
might  have  been  a  missionary.  I  made  lov^e  with  the 
officers  of  every  ship  that  touched  the  island,  and 
George  Rainey  never  saw  anything.  At  last  I  was 
disgusted  with  him,  and  I  got  a  divorce.  What  was 
the  good  of  a  husband  like  that?  It's  a  terrible 
thing  the  way  some  men  treat  women." 

I  condoled  with  Tiare,  and  remarked  feelingly 
that  men  were  deceivers  ever,  then  asked  her  to  go 
on  with  her  story  of  Strickland. 

**  'Well,'  I  said  to  him,  'there's  no  hurry  about  it. 
Take  your  time  and  think  It  over.  Ata  has  a  very 
nice  room  in  the  annexe.  Live  with  her  for  a  month, 
and  see  how  you  like  her.  You  can  have  your  meals 
here.  And  at  the  end  of  a  month,  if  you  decide  you 
want  to  marry  her,  you  can  just  go  and  settle  down 
on  her  property.* 

"Well,  he  agreed  to  that.  Ata  continued  to  do  the 
housework,  and  I  gave  him  his  meals  as  I  said  I 
would.  I  taught  Ata  to  make  one  or  tw,o  dishes  I 
knew  he  was  fond  of.  He  did  not  paint  much.  He 
wandered  about  the  hills  and  bathed  in  the  stream. 
And  he  sat  about  the  front  looking  at  the  lagoon, 
and  at  sunset  he  would  go  down  and  look  at  Murea. 
He  used  to  go  fishing  on  the  reef.  He  loved  to 
moon  about  the  harbour  talking  to  the  natives.  He 
was  a  nice,  quiet  fellow.  And  every  evening  after 
dinner  he  would  go  down  to  the  annexe  with  Ata. 
I  saw  he  was  longing  to  get  away  to  the  bush,  and  at 
the  end  of  the  month  I  asked  him  what  he  intended 
to  do.     He  said  if  Ata  was  willing  to  go,  he  was 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  271 

Willing  to  go  with  her.  So  I  gave  them  a  wedding 
dinner.  I  cooked  it  with  my  own  hands.  I  gave 
them  a  pea  soup  and  lobster  a  la  portugaise,  and  a 
curry,  and  a  cocoa-nut  salad — you've  never  had  one 
of  my  cocoa-nut  salads,  have  you?  I  must  make  you 
one  before  you  go — and  then  I  made  them  an  ice. 
We  had  all  the  champagne  we  could  drink  and 
liqueurs  to  follow.  Oh,  I'd  made  up  my  mind  to  do 
things  well.  And  afterwards  we  danced  in  the  draw- 
ing-room. I  was  not  so  fat,  then,  and  I  always  loved 
dancing." 

The  drawing-room  at  the  Hotel  de  la  Fleur  was 
a  small  room,  with  a  cottage  piano,  and  a  suite  of 
mahogany  furniture,  covered  in  stamped  velvet, 
neatly  arranged  around  the  walls.  On  round  tables 
were  photograph  albums,  and  on  the  walls  enlarged 
photographs  of  Tiare  and  her  first  husband.  Cap- 
tain Johnson.  Still,  though  Tiare  was  old  and  fat, 
on  occasion  we  rolled  back  the  Brussels  carpet, 
brought  in  the  maids  and  one  or  two  friends  of 
Tiare's,  and  danced,  though  now  to  the  wheezy 
music  of  a  gramaphone.  On  the  verandah  the  air 
was  scented  with  the  heavy  perfume  of  the  tiare, 
and  overhead  the  Southern  Cross  shone  in  a  cloudless 
sky. 

Tiare  smiled  indulgently  as  she  remembered  the 
gaiety  of  a  time  long  passed. 

"We  kept  it  up  till  three,  and  when  we  went  to 
bed  I  don't  think  anyone  was  very  sober.  I  had  told 
them  they  could  have  my  trap  to  take  them  as  far  as 
the  road  went,  because  after  that  they  had  a  long 
walk.    Ata's  property  was  right  away  in  a  fold  of  the 


872  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

mountain.     They  started  at  dawn,  and  tKe  Hoy  I 
sent  with  them  didn't  come  back  till  next  day. 
**Yc8,  that's  how  Strickland  was  married." 


Chapter  LI  I 

I  SUPPOSE  the  next  three  years  were  the  hap- 
piest of  Strickland's  life.  Ata's  house  stood 
about  eight  kilometres  from  the  road  that  runs 
round  the  island,  and  you  went  to  it  along  a  wind- 
ing pathway  shaded  by  the  luxuriant  trees  of  the 
tropics.  It  was  a  bungalow  of  unpainted  wood,  con- 
sisting of  two  small  rooms,  and  outside  was  a  small 
shed  that  served  as  a  kitchen.  There  was  no  fur- 
niture except  the  mats  they  used  as  beds,  and  a  rock- 
ing-chair, which  stood  on  the  verandah.  Bananas 
with  their  great  ragged  leaves,  like  the  tattered  ha- 
biliments of  an  empress  in  adversity,  grew  close  up 
to  the  house.  There  was  a  tree  just  behind  which 
bore  alligator  pears,  and  all  about  were  the  cocoa- 
nuts  which  gave  the  land  its  revenue.  Ata's  father 
had  planted  crotons  round  his  property,  and  they 
grew  in  coloured  profusion,  gay  and  brilliant;  they 
'fenced  the  land  with  flame.  A  mango  grew  In  front 
of  the  house,  and  at  the  edge  of  the  clearing  were 
two  flamboyants,  twin  trees,  that  challenged  the  gold 
of  the  cocoa-nuts  with  their  scarlet  flowers. 

Here  Strickland  lived,  coming  seldom  to  Papeete, 
on  the  produce  of  the  land.  There  was  a  little 
stream  that  ran  not  far  away,  in  which  he  bathed, 
and  down  this  on  occasion  would  come  a  shoal  of 
fish.  Then  the  natives  would  assemble  with  spears, 
and  with  much  shouting  would  transfix  the  great 
startled  things   as  they  hurried  down  to  the  sea. 

273 


274  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

Sometimes  Strickland  would  go  down  to  the  reef, 
and  come  back  with  a  basket  of  small,  coloured  fish 
that  Ata  would  fry  in  cocoa-nut  oil,  or  with  a  lobster; 
and  sometimes  she  would  make  a  savoury  dish  of  the 
great  land-crabs  that  scuttled  away  under  your  feet. 
Up  the  mountain  were  wild-orange  trees,  and  now 
and  then  Ata  would  go  with  two  or  three  women 
from  the  village  and  return  laden  with  the  green, 
sweet,  luscious  fruit.  Then  the  cocoa-nuts  would 
be  ripe  for  picking,  and  her  cousins  (like  all  the 
natives,  Ata  had  a  host  of  relatives)  would  swarm 
up  the  trees  and  throw  down  the  big  ripe  nuts.  Theyj 
split  them  open  and  put  them  in  the  sun  to  dry. 
Then  they  cut  out  the  copra  and  put  it  into  sacks, 
and  the  women  would  carry  It  down  to  the  trader  at 
the  village  by  the  lagoon,  and  he  would  give  in  ex- 
change for  It  rice  and  soap  and  tinned  meat  and  a 
little  money.  Sometimes  there  would  be  a  feast  in 
the  neighbourhood,  and  a  pig  would  be  killed.  Then 
they  would  go  and  eat  themselves  sick,  and  dance, 
and  sing  hymns. 

But  the  house  was  a  long  way  from  the  village, 
and  the  Tahltians  are  lazy.  They  love  to  travel  and 
they  love  to  gossip,  but  they  do  not  care  to  walk, 
and  for  weeks  at  a  time  Strickland  and  Ata  lived 
alone.  He  painted  and  he  read,  and  in  the  evening, 
when  It  was  dark,  they  sat  together  on  the  verandah, 
smoking  and  looking  at  the  night.  Then  Ata  had 
a  baby,  and  the  old  woman  who  came  up  to  help 
her  through  her  trouble  stayed  on.  Presently  the 
granddaughter  of  the  old  woman  came  to  stay  with 
her,  and  then  a  youth  appeared — no  one  quite  knew; 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  275 

where  from  or  to  wHom  he  belonged — ^but  he  set- 
tled down  with  them  in  a  happy-go-lucky  way,  and 
they  all  lived  together. 


Chapter  \All 

**  ^  M  fENEZ,  voila  le  Capitaine  Brunot,"  said 
g  Tiare,  one  day  when  I  was  fitting  together 
what  she  could  tell  me  of  Strickland.  "He 
kiiew  Strickland  well;  he  visited  him  at  his  house." 
I  saw  a  middle-aged  Frenchman  with  a  big  black 
beard,  streaked  with  gray,  a  sunburned  face,  and 
large,  shining  eyes.  He  was  dressed  in  a  neat  suit 
of  ducks.  I  had  noticed  him  at  luncheon,  and  Ah 
Lin,  the  Chinese  boy,  told  me  he  had  come  from 
the  Paumotus  on  the  boat  that  had  that  day  arrived. 
Tiare  introduced  me  to  him,  and  he  handed  me  his 
card,  a  large  card  on  which  was  printed  Rene  Brunot, 
and  underneath,  Capitaine  au  Long  Cours.  We  were 
sitting  on  a  little  verandah  outside  the  kitchen,  and 
Tiare  was  cutting  out  a  dress  that  she  was  making 
for  one  of  the  girls  about  the  house.  He  sat  down 
with  us. 

"Yes;  I  knew  Strickland  well,"  he  said.  "I  am 
very  fond  of  chess,  and  he  was  always  glad  of  a 
game.  I  come  to  Tahiti  three  or  four  times  a  year 
for  my  business,  and  when  he  was  at  Papeete  he 
would  come  here  and  we  would  play.  When  he 
married"' — Captain  Brunot  smiled  and  shrugged  his 
shoulders — "enfin,  when  lie  went  to  live  with  the 
girl  that  Tiare  gave  him,  he  asked  me  to  go  and  see 
him.  I  was  one  of  the  guests  at  the  wedding  feast." 
He  looked  at  Tiare,  and  they  both  laughed.     "He 

276 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  Si7f 

did  not  come  much  to  Papeete  after  that,  and  about 
a  year  later  it  chanced  that  I  had  to  go  to  that  part 
of  the  island  for  I  forgot  what  business,  and  when 
I  had  finished  it  I  said  to  myself:  'Voyons,  why 
should  I  not  go  and  see  that  poor  Strickland?'  I 
asked  one  or  two  natives  if  they  knew  anything  about 
him,  and  I  discovered  that  he  lived  not  more  than 
five  kilometres  from  where  I  was.  So  I  went.  I 
shall  never  forget  the  impression  my  visit  made  on 
me.  I  live  on  an  atoll,  a  low  island,  it  is  a  strip  of 
land  surrounding  a  lagoon,  and  its  beauty  is  the 
beauty  of  the  sea  and  sky  and  the  varied  colour  of 
the  lagoon^  and  the  grace  of  the  cocoa-nut  trees;  but 
the  place  where  Strickland  lived  had  the  beauty  of 
the  Garden  of  Eden.  Ah,  I  wish  I  could  make  you 
see  the  enchantment  of  that  spot,  a  corner  hidden 
away  from  all  the  world,  with  the  blue  sky  overhead 
and  the  rich,  luxuriant  trees.  It  was  a  feast  of  colour. 
And  it  was  fragrant  and  cool.  Words  cannot  de- 
scribe that  paradise.  And  here  he  lived,  unmindful 
of  the  world  and  by  the  world  forgotten.  I  suppose 
to  European  eyes  it  would  have  seemed  astonishingly 
sordid.  The  house  was  dilapidated  and  none  too 
clean.  Three  or  four  natives  were  lying  on  the  ver- 
andah. You  know  how  natives  love  to  herd  together. 
There  was  a  young  man  lying  full  length,  smoking  a 
cigarette,  and  he  wore  nothing  but  a  pareo'* 

The  pareo  is  a  long  strip  of  trade  cotton,  red  or 
blue,  stamped  with  a  white  pattern.  It  is  worn  round 
the  waist  and  hangs  to  the  knees. 

"A  girl  of  fifteen,  perhaps,  was  plaiting  pandanus- 
leaf  to  make  a  hat,  and  an  old  woman  was  sitting  on 


ftTB  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

her  haunches  smoking  a  pipe.  Then  I  saw  Ata. 
She  was  suckling  a  new-born  child,  and  another 
child,  stark  naked,  was  playing  at  her  feet. 
When  she  saw  me  she  called  out  to  Strickland, 
and  he  came  to  the  door.  He,  too,  wore  nothing 
but  a  pareo.  He  was  an  extraordinary  figure,  with 
his  red  beard  and  matted  hair,  and  his  great  hairy 
chest.  His  feet  were  homy  and  scarred,  so  that 
I  knew  he  went  always  bare  foot.  He  had  gone 
native  with  a  vengeance.  He  seemed  pleased  to 
see  me,  and  told  Ata  to  kill  a  chicken  for  our  dinner. 
He  took  me  Into  the  house  to  show  mc  the  pic- 
ture he  was  at  work  on  when  I  came  in.  In  one 
C£>rner  of  the  room  was  the  bed,  and  in  the 
middle  was  an  easel  with  the  canvas  upon  it.  Be- 
cause I  was  sorry  for  him,  I  had  bought  a  couple 
of  his  pictures  for  small  sums,  and  I  had  sent  others 
to  friends  of  mine  in  France.  And  though  I  had 
bought  them  out  of  compassion,  after  living  with 
them  I  began  to  like  them.  Indeed,  I  found  a  strange 
beauty  In  them.  Everyone  thought  I  was  mad,  but 
it  turns  out  that  I  was  right.  I  was  his  first  admirer 
in  the  Islands." 

He  smiled  maliciously  at  TIare,  and  with  lamen- 
tations she  told  us  again  the  story  of  how  at  the 
sale  of  Strickland's  effects  she  had  neglected  the  pic- 
tures, but  bought  an  American  stove  for  twenty-seven 
francs. 

"Have  you  the  pictures  still?"  I  asked. 

"Yes;  I  am  keeping  them  till  my  daughter  Is  of 
marriageable  age,  and  then  I  shall  sell  them.  They 
win  be  her  dot! 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  27« 

Then  he  went  on  with  the  account  of  his  visit  to 
Strickland. 

"I  shall  never  forget  the  evening  I  spent  with 
him.  I  had  not  intended  to  stay  more  than  an  hour, 
but  he  insisted  that  I  should  spend  the  night.  I 
hesitated,  for  I  confess  I  did  not  much  like  the  look 
of  the  mats  on  which  he  proposed  that  I  should 
sleep;  but  I  shrugged  my  shoulders.  When  I  was 
building  my  house  in  the  Paumotus  I  had  slept  out 
for  weeks  on  a  harder  bed  than  that,  with  nothing  to 
shelter  me  but  wild  shrubs;  and  as  for  vermin,  my 
tough  skin  should  be  proof  against  their  malice. 

"We  went  down  to  the  stream  to  bathe  while  Ata 
was  preparing  the  dinner,  and  after  we  had  eaten  it 
we  sat  on  the  verandah.  We  smoked  and  chatted. 
The  young  man  had  a  concertina,  and  he  played  the 
tunes  popular  on  the  music-halls  a  dozen  years  be- 
fore. They  sounded  strangely  in  the  tropical  night 
thousands  of  miles  from  civilisation.  I  asked  Strick- 
land if  it  did  not  irk  him  to  live  in  that  promiscuity. 
No,  he  said;  he  liked  to  have  his  models  under  his 
hand.  Presently,  after  loud  yawning,  the  natives 
went  away  to  sleep,  and  Strickland  and  I  were  left 
alone.  I  cannot  describe  to  you  the  intense  silence 
of  the  night.  On  my  island  in  the  Paumotus  there 
is  never  at  night  the  complete  stillness  that  there 
was  here.  There  is  the  rustle  of  the  myriad  animals 
on  the  beach,  all  the  little  shelled  things  that  crawl 
about  ceaselessly,  and  there  is  the  noisy  scurrying  of 
the  land-crabs.  Now  and  then  in  the  lagoon  you 
hear  the  leaping  of  a  fish,  and  sometimes  a  hurried 
noisy  splashing  as  a  brown  shark  sends  all  the  other 


280  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

fish  scampering  for  their  lives.  And  above  all,  cease- 
less like  time,  is  the  dull  roar  of  the  breakers  on 
the  reef.  But  here  there  was  not  a  sound,  and  the 
air  was  scented  with  the  white  flowers  of  the  night. 
It  was  a  night  so  beautiful  that  your  soul  seemed 
hardly  able  to  bear  the  prison  of  the  body.  You 
felt  that  it  was  ready  to  be  wafted  away  on  the 
immaterial  air,  and  death  bore  all  the  aspect  of  a 
beloved  friend." 

Tiare  sighed. 

"Ah,  I  wish  I  were  fifteen  again." 

Then  she  caught  sight  of  a  cat  trying  to  get  at  a 
dish  of  prawns  on  the  kitchen  table,  and  with  a  dex- 
terous gesture  and  a  lively  volley  of  abuse  flung  a 
book  at  its  scampering  tail. 

"I  asked  him  if  he  was  happy  with  Ata. 

"  'She  leaves  me  alone,'  he  said.  'She  cooks  my 
food  and  looks  after  her  babies.  She  does  what  I 
tell  her.    She  gives  me  what  I  want  from  a  woman.' 

'"And  do  you  never  regret  Europe?  Do  you 
not  yearn  sometimes  for  the  light  of  the  streets  in 
Paris  or  London,  the  companionship  of  your  friends, 
and  equals,  que  sais-je?  for  theatres  and  newspapers, 
and  the  rumble  of  omnibuses  on  the  cobbled  pave- 
ments ?' 

"For  a  long  time  he  was  silent.    Then  he  said: 

"  'I  shall  stay  here  till  I  die.' 

"  'But  are  you  never  bored  or  lonely?*  I  asked, 

"He  chucUed. 

"  'Mon  pauvre  ami/  he  said.  *It  Is  evident  that 
you  do  not  know  what  It  Is  to  be  an  artist'  " 

Capitainc  Brunot  turned  to  me  with  a  gentle  smile, 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  281 

and  there  was  a  wonderful  look  In  his  dark,  kind  eyes. 

'*He  did  me  an  Injustice,  for  I  too  know  what  It 
is  to  have  dreams.  I  have  my  visions  too.  In  my 
way  I  also  am  an  artist." 

We  were  all  silent  for  a  while,  and  Tlare  fished 
out  of  her  capacious  pocket  a  handful  of  cigarettes. 
She  handed  one  to  each  of  us,  and  we  all  three 
smoked.     At  last  she  said: 

"Since  ce  monsieur  is  Interested  in  Strickland, 
"why  do  you  not  take  him  to  see  Dr.  Coutras?  He 
can  tell  him  something  about  his  illness  and 
Heath." 

"Folontiers/*  said  the  Captain,  looking  at  me. 

I  thanked  him,  and  he  looked  at  his  watch. 

"It  is  past  six  o'clock.  We  should  find  him  at 
home  If  you  care  to  come  now." 

I  got  up  without  further  ado,  and  we  walked  along 
the  road  that  led  to  the  doctor's  house.  He  lived 
out  of  the  town,  but  the  Hotel  de  la  Fleur  was  on  the 
edge  of  it,  and  we  were  quickly  in  the  country.  The 
broad  road  was  shaded  by  pepper-trees,  and  on  each 
side  were  the  plantations,  cocoa-nut  and  vanilla.  The 
pirate  birds  were  screeching  among  the  leaves  of  the 
palms.  We  came  to  a  stone  bridge  over  a  shallow 
river,  and  we  stopped  for  a  few  minutes  to  see  the 
native  boys  bathing.  They  chased  one  another  with 
shrill  cries  and  laughter,  and  their  bodies,  brown  and 
wet,  gleamed  in  the  sunlight. 


Chapter  LIV 

AS  we  walked  along  I  reflected  on  a  circum- 
stance which  all  that  I  had  lately  heard  about 
Strickland  forced  on  my  attention.  Here,  on 
this  remote  island,  he  seemed  to  have  aroused  none 
of  the  detestation  with  which  he  was  regarded  at 
home,  but  compassion  rather;  and  his  vagaries  were 
accepted  with  tolerance.  To  these  people,  native  and 
European,  he  was  a  queer  fish,  but  they  were  used  to 
queer  fish,  and  they  took  him  for  granted ;  the  world 
was  full  of  odd  persons,  who  did  odd  things;  and 
perhaps  they  knew  that  a  man  is  not  what  he  wants 
to  be,  but  what  he  must  be.  In  England  and  France 
he  was  the  square  peg  in  the  round  hole,  but  here  the 
holes  were  any  sort  of  shape,  and  no  sort  of  peg  was 
quite  amiss.  I  do  not  think  he  was  any  gentler  here, 
less  selfish  or  less  brutal,  but  the  circumstances  were 
more  favourable.  If  he  had  spent  his  life  amid  these 
surroundings  he  might  have  passed  for  no  worse 
a  man  than  another.  He  received  here  what  he 
neither  expected  nor  wanted  among  his  own  people 
— sympathy. 

I  tried  to  tell  Captain  Brunot  something  of  the 
astonishment  with  which  this  filled  me,  and  for  a 
little  while  he  did  not  answer. 

"It  is  not  strange  that  I,  at  all  events,  should  have 
had  sympathy  for  him,"  he  said  at  last,  "for,  though 
perhaps  neither  of  us  knew  it,  we  were  both  aiming 
at  the  same  thing." 

282 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  285 

"What  on  earth  can  it  be  that  two  people  so 
dissimilar  as  you  and  Strickland  could  aim  at?"  I 
asked,  smiling. 
*'Beauty." 

"A  large  order,"  I  murmured. 
"Do  you  know  how  men  can  be  so  obsessed  by  love 
that  they  are  deaf  and  blind  to  everything  else  in 
the  world?  They  are  as  little  their  own  masters  as 
the  slaves  chained  to  the  benches  of  a  galley.  The 
passion  that  held  Strickland  in  bondage  was  no  less 
tyrannical  than  love." 

"How  strange  that  you  should  say  that  I"  I  an- 
swered. "For  long  ago  I  had  the  idea  that  he  was 
possessed  of  a  devil." 

"And  the  passion  that  held  Strickland  was  a  pae- 
sion  to  create  beauty.  It  gave  him  no  peace.  It 
urged  him  hither  and  thither.  He  was  eternally  a 
pilgrim,  haunted  by  a  divine  nostalgia,  and  the  demon 
within  him  was  ruthless.  There  are  men  whose  de- 
sire for  truth  is  so  great  that  to  attain  it  they  will 
shatter  the  very  foundation  of  their  world.  Of  such 
was  Strickland,  only  beauty  with  him  took  the  place 
of  truth.  I  could  only  feel  for  him  a  profound  com- 
passion." 

"That  is  strange  also.  A  man  wHom  he  had  deep- 
ly wronged  told  me  that  he  felt  a  great  pity  for 
him."  I  was  silent  for  a  moment.  "I  wonder  if 
there  you  have  found  the  explanation  of  a  character 
which  has  always  seemed  to  me  inexplicable.  How 
did  you  hit  on  it?" 

He  turned  to  me  with  a  smile. 

*'Did  I  not  tell  you  that  I,  too,  in  my  way  was 


^84  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

an  artist?  I  realised  in  myself  the  same  d-esire  as 
animated  him.  But  whereas  his  medium  was  paint, 
mine  has  been  life." 

Then  Captain  Brunot  told  me  a  story  which  I 
must  repeat,  since,  if  only  by  way  of  contrast,  it  adds 
something  to  my  impression  of  Strickland.  It  has 
also  to  my  mind  a  beauty  of  its  own. 

Captain  Brunot  was  a  Breton,  and  had  been  in 
the  French  Navy.  He  left  it  on  his  marriage,  and 
settled  down  on  a  small  property  he  had  near  Quim- 
per  to  live  for  the  rest  of  his  days  in  peace;  but  the 
failure  of  an  attorney  left  him  suddenly  penniless, 
and  neither  he  nor  his  wife  was  willing  to  live  in 
penury  where  they  had  enjoyed  consideration.  Dur- 
ing his  seafaring  days  he  had  cruised  the  South  Seas, 
and  he  determined  now  to  seek  his  fortune  there. 
He  spent  some  months  in  Papeete  to  make  his  plans 
and  gain  experience ;  then,  on  money  borrowed  from 
a  friend  in  France,  he  bought  an  island  in  the  Pau- 
motus.  It  was  a  ring  of  land  round  a  deep  lagoon, 
uninhabited,  and  covered  only  with  scrub  and  wild 
guava.  With  the  intrepid  woman  who  was  his  wife, 
and  a  few  natives,  he  landed  there,  and  set  about 
building  a  house,  and  clearing  the  scrub  so  that  he 
could  plant  cocoa-nuts.  That  was  twenty  years  be- 
fore, and  now  what  had  been  a  barren  island  was 
a  garden. 

"It  was  hard  and  anxious  work  at  first,  and  we 
Vorked  strenuously,  both  of  us.  Every  day  I  was 
up  at  dawn,  clearing,  planting,  working  on  my  house, 
and  at  night  when  I  threw  myself  on  my  bed  it-,  was 
to  sleep  like  a  log  till  morning.     My  wife  worked  as 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  285 

hard  as  I  did.  Then  children  were  born  to  us,  first 
a  son  and  then  a  daughter.  My  wife  and  I  have 
taught  them  all  they  know.  We  had  a  piano  sent 
out  from  France,  and  she  has  taught  them  to  play 
and  to  speak  English,  and  I  have  taught  them  Latin 
and  mathematics,  and  we  read  history  together.  They 
can  sail  a  boat.  They  can  swim  as  well  as  the  na- 
tives. There  is  nothing  about  the  land  of  which 
they  are  ignorant.  Our  trees  have  prospered,  and 
there  is  shell  on  my  reef.  I  have  come  to  Tahiti 
jnow"  to  buy  a  schooner.  I  can  get  enough  shell  to 
make  it  worth  while  to  fish  for  it,  and,  who  knows  ? 
I  may  find  pearls.  I  have  made  something  where 
'there  was  nothing.  I  too  have  made  beauty.  Ah, 
you  do  not  know  what  it  is  to  look  at  those  tall, 
healthy  trees  and  think  that  every  one  I  planted  my- 
self." 

"Let  me  ask  you  the  question  that  you  asked  Strick- 
land. Do  you  never  regret  France  and  your  old  home 
in  Brittany?" 

"Some  day,  when  my  daughter  is  married  and  my 
son  has  a  wife  and  is  able  to  take  my  place  on  the 
Island,  we  shall  go  back  and  finish  our  days  in  the 
old  house  in  which  I  was  born." 

"You  will  look  back  on  a  happy  life,"  I  said. 

^'Evidemmentf  it  Is  not  exciting  on  my  Island,  and 
we  are  very  far  from  the  world — Imagine,  it  takes 
me  four  days  to  come  to  Tahiti — but  we  are  happy 
there.  It  Is  given  to  few  men  to  attempt  a  work 
and  to  achieve  It.  Our  life  Is  simple  and  Innocent. 
We  are  untouched  by  ambition,  and  what  pride  we 
have  is  due  only  to  our  contemplation  of  the  worK 


286  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

of  our  hands.  Malice  cannot  touch  us,  nor  envy 
attack.  Ah,  mon  cher  monsieur,  they  talk  of  the 
blessedness  of  labour,  and  it  is  a  meaningless  phrase, 
but  to  me  it  has  the  most  intense  significance.  I  am 
a  happy  man." 

"I  am  sure  you  deserve  to  be,"  I  smiled. 

*'I  wish  I  could  think  so.  I  do  not  know  how  I 
have  deserved  to  have  a  wife  who  was  the  perfect 
friend  and  helpmate,  the  perfect  mistress  and  the 
perfect  mother." 

I  reflected  for  a  while  on  the  life  that  the  Captain 
suggested  to  my  imagination. 

"It  is  obvious  that  to  lead  such  an  existence  and 
make  so  great  a  success  of  it,  you  must  both  have 
needed  a  strong  will  and  a  determined  charac- 
ter." 

"Perhaps;  but  without  one  other  factor  we  could 
have  achieved  nothing." 

"And  what  was  that?" 

He  stopped,  somewhat  dramatically,  and  stretched 
out  his  arm. 

"Belief  In  God.  Without  that  we  should  have 
keen  lost.'* 

Then  we  arrived  at  the  house  of  Dr.  Coutras. 


Chapter  LV 

MR.  COUTRAS  was  an  old  Frenchman  of  great 
stature  and  exceeding  bulk.  His  body  was 
shaped  like  a  huge  duck's  egg;  and  his  eyes, 
sharp,  blue,  and  good-natured,  rested  now  and  then 
with  self-satisfaction  on  his  enormous  paunch.  His 
complexion  was  florid  and  his  hair  white.  He  wasi 
a  man  to  attract  immediate  sympathy.  He  received 
us  in  a  room  that  might  have  been  in  a  house  in  a 
provincial  town  in  France,  and  the  one  or  two  Poly- 
nesian curios  had  an  odd  look.  He  took  my  hand 
in  both  of  his — they  were  huge — and  gave  me  a 
hearty  look,  in  which,  however,  was  great  shrewd-r 
ness.  When  he  shook  hands  with  Capitaine  Brunot 
he  enquired  politely  after  Madame  et  les  en f ants. 
For  some  minutes  there  was  an  exchange  of  courtesies 
and  some  local  gossip  about  the  island,  the  prospects 
of  copra  and  the  vanilla  crop;  then  we  came  to  the 
object  of  my  visit. 

I  shall  not  tell  what  Dr.  Coutras  related  to  me 
in  his  words,  but  in  my  own,  for  I  cannot  hope  to 
give  at  second  hand  any  impression  of  his  vivacious 
delivery.  He  had  a  deep,  resonant  voice,  fitted  to 
his  massive  frame,  and  a  keen  sense  of  the  dramatic. 
To  listen  to  him  was,  as  the  phrase  goes,  as  good 
as  a  play;  and  much  better  than  most. 

It  appears  that  Dr.  Coutras  had  gone  one  day  to 
Taravao  in  order  to  see  an  old  chiefess  who  was  ill, 
and  he  gave  a  vivid  picture  of  the  obese  old  lady, 

287 


288  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

lying  In  a  huge  bed,  smoking  cigarettes,  and  sur- 
rounded by  a  crowd  of  dark-skinned  retainers.  When 
he  had  seen  her  he  was  taken  into  another  room  and 
given  dinner — raw  fish,  fried  bananas,  and  chicken — 
que  sais-je,  the  typical  dinner  of  the  indighie — and 
while  he  was  eating  it  he  saw  a  young  girl  being  driven 
away  from  the  door  in  tears.  He  thought  nothing  of 
it,  but  when  he  went  out  to  get  into  his  trap  and 
drive  home,  he  saw  her  again,  standing  a  little  way 
off;  she  looked  at  him  with  a  woebegone  air,  and 
tears  streamed  down  her  cheeks.  He  asked  someone 
what  was  wrong  with  her,  and  was  told  that  she  had 
come  down  from  the  hills  to  ask  him  to  visit  a  white 
man  who  was  sick.  They  had  told  her  that  the 
doctor  could  not  be  disturbed.  He  called  her,  and 
himself  asked  what  she  wanted.  She  told  him  that 
Ata  had  sent  her,  she  who  used  to  be  at  the  Hotel  de 
la  Fleur,  and  that  the  Red  One  was  ill.  She  thrust 
into  his  hand  a  crumpled  piece  of  newspaper,  and 
when  he  opened  it  he  found  in  it  a  hundred-franc 
note. 

"Who  is  the  Red  One?"  he  asked  of  one  of  the 
bystanders. 

He  was  told  that  that  was  what  they  called  the 
Englishman,  a  painter,  who  lived  with  Ata  up  in  the 
valley  seven  kilometres  from  where  they  were.  He 
recognised  Strickland  by  the  description.  But  it  was 
necessary  to  walk.  It  was  Impossible  for  him  to  go; 
that  was  why  they  had  sent  the  girl  away. 

"I  confess,"  said  the  doctor,  turning  to  me,  "that 
I  hesitated.  I  did  not  relish  fourteen  kilometres  over 
a  bad  pathway,  and  there  was  no  chance  that  I  could 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  289 

get  back  to  Papeete  that  night.  Besides,  Strickland 
was  not  sympathetic  to  me.  He  was  an  idle,  useless 
scoundrel,  who  preferred  to  live  with  a  native  woman 
rather  than  work  for  his  living  like  the  rest  of  us. 
Mon  Dieu,  how  was  I  to  know  that  one  day  the  world 
would  come  to  the  conclusion  that  he  had  genius  ?  I 
asked  the  girl  if  he  was  not  well  enough  to  have  come 
down  to  see  me.  I  asked  her  what  she  thought  was 
the  matter  with  him.  She  would  not  answer.  I 
pressed  her,  angrily  perhaps,  but  she  looked  down 
on  the  ground  and  began  to  cry.  Then  I  shrugged 
my  shoulders;  after  all,  perhaps  it  was  my  duty  to  go, 
and  in  a  very  bad  temper  I  bade  her  lead  the  way." 

His  temper  was  certainly  no  better  wlien  he  ar- 
rived, perspiring  freely  and  thirsty.  Ata  was  on  the 
look-out  for  him,  and  came  a  little  way  along  the 
path  to  meet  him. 

"Before  I  see  anyone  give  me  something  to  drink 
or  I  shall  die  of  thirst,"  he  cried  out.  "Pour  V amour 
de  Dien,  get  me  a  cocoa-nut." 

She  called  out,  and  a  boy  came  running  along.  He 
swarmed  up  a  tree,  and  presently  threw  down  a  ripe 
nut.  Ata  pierced  a  hole  in  it,  and  the  doctor  took  a 
long,  refreshing  draught.  Then  he  rolled  himself  a 
cigarette  and  felt  in  a  better  humour. 

"Now,  where  is  the  Red  One?"  he  asked. 

"He  is  in  the  house,  painting.  I  have  not  told 
him  you  were  coming.     Go  in  and  see  him." 

"But  what  does  he  complain  of?  If  he  is  well 
enough  to  paint,  he  is  well  enough  to  have  come  down 
to  Taravao  and  save  me  this  confounded  walk.  I 
presume  my  time  is  no  less  valuable  than  his." 


J90  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

Ata  did  not  speak,  but  with  the  boy  followed  him 
to  the  house.  The  girl  who  had  brought  him  was 
by  this  time  sitting  on  the  verandah,  and  here  was 
lying  an  old  woman,  with  her  back  to  the  wall,  mak- 
ing native  cigarettes.  Ata  pointed  to  the  door.  The 
doctor,  wondering  irritably  why  they  behaved  so 
strangely,  entered,  and  there  found  Strickland  clean- 
ing his  palette.  There  was  a  picture  on  the  easel. 
Strickland,  clad  only  in  a  pareo,  was  standing  with 
his  back  to  the  door,  but  he  turned  round  when  he 
heard  the  sound  of  boots.  He  gave  the  doctor  a 
look  of  vexation.  He  was  surprised  to  see  him,  and 
resented  the  intrusion.  But  the  doctor  gave  a  gasp, 
he  was  rooted  to  the  floor,  and  he  stared  with  all 
his  eyes.  This  was  not  what  he  expected.  He  was 
seized  with  horror. 

"You  enter  without  ceremony,"  said  Strickland. 
"What  can  I  do  for  you?" 

The  doctor  recovered  himself,  but  it  required  quite 
an  effort  for  him  to  find  his  voice.  All  his  irritation 
was  gone,  and  he  felt^ — eh  bien,  out,  ]e  ne  le  nie  pas — 
he  felt  an  overwhelming  pity. 

"I  am  Dr.  Coutras.  I  was  down  at  Taravao  to  see 
the  chiefess,  and  Ata  sent  for  me  to  see  you." 

"She's  a  damned  fool.  I  have  had  a  few  aches 
and  pains  lately  and  a  little  fever,  but  that's  nothing; 
It  will  pass  off.  Next  time  anyone  went  to  Papeete 
I  was  going  to  send  for  some  quinine." 

"Look  at  yourself  in  the  glass." 

Strickland  gave  him  a  glance,  smiled,  and  went  over 
to  a  cheap  mirror  in  a  little  wooden  frame,  that  hung 
on  the  wall. 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  291 

"Well?" 

*'Do  you  not  see  a  strange  change  In  your  face? 
Do  you  not  see  the  thickening  of  your  features  and 
a  look — how  shall  I  describe  it? — the  books  call  it 
lion-faced.  Mon  pativre  ami,  must  I  tell  you  that 
you  have  a  terrible  disease?" 

"I?" 

"When  you  look  at  yourself  In  the  glass  you  see 
the  typical  appearance  of  the  leper." 

"You  are  jesting,"  said  Strickland. 

"I  wish  to  God  I  were." 

"Do  you  Intend  to  tell  me  that  I  have  leprosy?" 

"Unfortunately,  there  can  be  no  doubt  of 
it." 

Dr.  Coutras  had  delivered  sentence  of  death  on 
many  men,  and  he  could  never  overcome  the  horror 
with  which  it  filled  him.  He  felt  always  the  furious 
hatred  that  must  seize  a  man  condemned  when  he 
compared  himself  with  the  doctor,  sane  and  healthy, 
who  had  the  inestimable  privilege  of  life.  Strickland 
looked  at  him  In  silence.  Nothing  of  emotion  could 
be  seen  on  his  face,  disfigured  already  by  the  loath- 
some disease. 

"Do  they  know?"  he  asked  at  last,  pointing  to  the 
persons  on  the  verandah,  now  sitting  in  unusual,  un- 
accountable silence. 

"These  natives  know  the  signs  so  well,"  said  tKe 
doctor.     "They  were  afraid  to  tell  you." 

Strickland  stepped  to  the  door  and  looked  out. 
There  must  have  been  something  terrible  In  his  face, 
for  suddenly  they  all  burst  out  Into  loud  cries  and 
lamentation.    They  lifted  up  their  voices  and  they 


292  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

wept.  Strickland  did  not  speak.  After  looking  at 
them  for  a  moment,  he  came  back  into  the  room. 

"How  long  do  you  think  I  can  last?" 

"Who  knows?  Sometimes  the  disease  continues 
for  twenty  years.  It  is  a  mercy  when  it  runs  its 
course  quickly." 

Strickland  went  to  his  easel  and  looked  reflectively; 
at  the  picture  that  stood  on  it. 

"You  have  had  a  long  journey.  It  Is  fitting  that 
the  bearer  of  important  tidings  should  be  rewarded. 
Take  this  picture.  It  means  nothing  to  you  now, 
but  it  may  be  that  one  day  you.  will  be  glad  to  have 
it" 

Dr.  Coutras  protested  that  he  needed  no  payment 
for  his  journey;  he  had  already  given  back  to  Ata 
the  hundred-franc  note,  but  Strickland  insisted  that 
he  should  take  the  picture.  Then  together  they  went 
out  on  the  verandah.  The  natives  were  sobbing  vio- 
lently. 

"Be  quiet,  woman.  Dry  thy  tears,"  said  Strick- 
land, addressing  Ata.  "There  is  no  great  harm.  I 
shall  leave  thee  very  soon." 

"They  are  not  going  to  take  thee  away?"  she  cried. 

At  that  time  there  was  no  rigid  sequestration  on  the 
islands,  and  lepers,  if  they  chose,  were  allowed  to  go 
free. 

"I  shall  go  up  into  the  mountain,"  said  Strickland. 

Then  Ata  stood  up  and  faced  him. 

"Let  the  others  go  if  they  choose,  but  I  will  not 
leave  thee.  Thou  art  my  man  and  I  am  thy  woman. 
If  thou  leavest  me  I  shall  hang  myself  on  the  tree 
that  is  behind  the  house.     I  swear  it  by  God.'' 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  29S 

There  was  something  immensely  forcible  in  the  way 
she  spoke.  She  was  no  longer  the  meek,  soft  native 
girl,  but  a  determined  woman.  She  was  extraordi- 
narily transformed. 

"Why  shouldst  thou  stay  with  me?  Thou  canst 
go  back  to  Papeete,  and  thou  wilt  soon  find  another 
white  man.  The  old  woman  can  take  care  of  thy 
children,  and  Tiare  will  be  glad  to  have  thee 
back." 

"Thou  art  my  man  and  I  am  thy  woman.  Whither 
thou  goest  I  will  go,  too." 

For  a  moment  Strickland's  fortitude  was  shaken, 
and  a  tear  filled  each  of  his  eyes  and  trickled  slowly 
down  his  cheeks.  Then  he  gave  the  sardonic  smile 
which  was  usual  with  him. 

"Women  are  strange  little  beasts,"  he  said  to  Dr. 
Coutras.  "You  can  treat  them  like  dogs,  you  can 
beat  them  till  your  arm  aches,  and  still  they  love  you." 
He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Of  course,  it  is  one 
of  the  most  absurd  illusions  of  Christianity  that  they 
have  souls." 

"What  is  it  that  thou  art  saying  to  the  doctor?" 
asked  Ata  suspiciously.     "Thou  wilt  not  go?" 

"If  it  please  thee  I  will  stay,  poor  child." 

Ata  flung  herself  on  her  knees  before  him,  and 
clasped  his  legs  with  her  arms  and  kissed  them. 
Strickland  looked  at  Dr.  Coutras  with  a  faint  smile. 

"In  the  end  they  get  you,  and  you  are  helpless  in 
their  hands.    White  or  brown,  they  are  all  the  same." 

Dr.  Coutras  felt  that  it  was  absurd  to  offer  ex- 
pressions of  regret  in  so  terrible  a  disaster,  and  he 
took  his  leave.    Strickland  told  Tane,  the  boy,  to  lead 


894  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

him  to  the  village.  Dr.  Coutras  paused  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  he  addressed  himself  to  me. 

"I  did  not  like  him,  I  have  told  you  he  was  not 
sympathetic  to  me,  but  as  I  walked  slowly  down  to 
Taravao  I  could  not  prevent  an  unwilling  admiration 
for  the  stoical  courage  which  enabled  him  to  bear 
perhaps  the  most  dreadful  of  human  afflictions.  When 
Tane  left  me  I  told  him  I  would  send  some  medicine 
that  might  be  of  service;  but  my  hope  was  small 
that  Strickland  would  consent  to  take  it,  and  even 
smaller  that,  if  he  did.  It  would  do  him  good.  I  gave 
the  boy  a  message  for  Ata  that  I  would  come  when- 
ever she  sent  for  me.  Life  is  hard,  and  Nature  takes 
sometimes  a  terrible  delight  in  torturing  her  children. 
It  was  with  a  heavy  heart  that  I  drove  back  to  my 
comfortable  home  in  Papeete." 

For  a  long  time  none  of  us  spoke. 

"But  Ata  did  not  send  for  me,"  the  doctor  went 
on,  at  last,  "and  It  chanced  that  I  did  not  go  to 
that  part  of  the  Island  for  a  long  time.  I  had  no 
news  of  Strickland.  Once  or  twice  I  heard  that  Ata 
had  been  to  Papeete  to  buy  painting  materials,  but 
I  did  not  happen  to  see  her.  More  than  two  years 
passed  before  I  went  to  Taravao  again,  and  then 
it  was  once  more  to  see  the  old  chief  ess.  I  asked 
them  whether  they  had  heard  anything  of  Strickland. 
By  now  It  was  known  everywhere  that  he  had  leprosy. 
First  Tane,  the  boy,  had  left  the  house,  and  then,  a 
little  time  afterwards,  the  old  woman  and  her  grand- 
child. Strickland  and  Ata  were  left  alone  with  their 
babies.  No  one  went  near  the  plantation,  for,  as 
you  know,  the  natives  have  a  very  lively  horror  of 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  295 

tHe  disease,  and  in  the  old  days  when  it  was  discov- 
ered the  sufferer  was  killed;  but  sometimes,  when 
the  village  boys  were  scrambling  about  the  hills,  they; 
would  catch  sight  of  the  white  man,  with  his  great 
red  beard,  wandering  about.  They  fled  in  terror. 
Sometimes  Ata  would  come  down  to  the  village  at 
night  and  arouse  the  trader,  so  that  he  might  sell 
her  various  things  of  which  she  stood  in  need.  She 
knew  that  the  natives  looked  upon  her  with  the  same 
horrified  aversion  as  they  looked  upon  Strickland, 
and  she  kept  out  of  their  way.  Once  some  women, 
venturing  nearer  than  usual  to  the  plantation,  saw  her 
washing  clothes  in  the  brook,  and  they  threw  stones 
at  her.  After  that  the  trader  was  told  to  give  her 
the  message  that  if  she  used  the  brook  again  men 
would  come  and  burn  down  her  house." 

"Brutes,"  I  said. 

''Mats  non,  mon  cher  monsieur,  men  are  always 
the  same.  Fear  makes  them  cruel.  ...  I  decided 
to  see  Strickland,  and  when  I  had  finished  with  the 
chiefess  asked  for  a  boy  to  show  me  the  way.  But 
none  would  accompany  me,  and  I  was  forced  to  find 
it  alone." 

When  Dr.  Coutras  arrived  at  the  plaTitation  he 
was  seized  with  a  feeling  of  uneasiness.  Though  he 
was  hot  from  walking,  he  shivered.  There  was 
something  hostile  in  the  air  which  made  him  hesitate, 
and  he  felt  that  invisible  forces  barred  his  way.  Un- 
seen hands  seemed  to  draw  him  back.  No  one  would 
go  near  now  to  gather  the  cocoa-nuts,  and  they  lay 
rotting  on  the  ground.  Everywhere  was  desolation- 
The  bush  was  encroaching,  and  it  looked  as  thougK 


SOQ  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

very  soon  the  primeval  forest  would  regain  posses- 
sion of  that  strip  of  land  which  had  been  snatched 
from  it  at  the  cost  of  so  much  labour.  He  had  the 
sensation  that  here  was  the  abode  of  pain.  As  he 
approached  the  house  he  was  struck  by  the  unearthly 
silence,  and  at  first  he  thought  it  was  deserted.  Then 
he  saw  Ata.  She  was  sitting  on  her  haunches  in  the 
lean-to  that  served  her  as  kitchen,  watching  some 
mess  cooking  in  a  pot.  Near  her  a  small  boy  was 
playing  silently  in  the  dirt.  She  did  not  smile  when 
she  saw  him. 

"I  have  come  to  see  Strickland,"  he  said. 

"I  will  go  and  tell  him." 

She  went  to  the  house,  ascended  the  few  steps  that 
led  to  the  verandah,  and  entered.  Dr.  Coutras  fol- 
lowed her,  but  waited  outside  in  obedience  to  her 
gesture.  As  she  opened  the  door  he  smelt  the  sickly 
sweet  smell  which  makes  the  neighbourhood  of  the 
leper  nauseous.  He  heard  her  speak,  and  then  he 
heard  Strickland's  answer,  but  he  did  not  recognise 
the  voice.  It  had  become  hoarse  and  Indistinct.  Dr. 
Coutras  raised  his  eyebrows.  He  judged  that  the 
disease  had  already  attacked  the  vocal  chords.  Then 
Ata  came  out  again. 

"He  will  not  see  you.    You  must  go  away." 

Dr.  Coutras  insisted,  but  she  would  not  let  him 
pass.  Dr.  Coutras  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  after 
a  moment's  reflection  turned  away.  She  walked  witK 
him.    He  felt  that  she  too  wanted  to  be  rid  of  him. 

"Is  there  nothing  I  can  do  at  all?"  he  asked. 

"You  can  send  him  some  paints,"  she  said.  "There 
is  nothing  else  he  wants.'* 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  297 

"Can  he  paint  still?" 

"He  is  painting  the  walls  of  the  house." 
"This  is  a  terrible  life  for  you,  my  poor  child." 
Then  at  last  she  smiled,  and  there  was  in  her  eyes 
a  look  of  superhuman  love.     Dr.  Coutras  was  star- 
tled by  it,  and  amazed.     And  he  was  awed.     He 
found  nothing  to  say. 

"He  is  my  man,"  she  said. 

"Where  is  your  other  child?"  he  asked.  "When  I 
was  here  last  you  had  two." 

"Yes;  it  died.  We  buried  it  under  the  mango." 
When  Ata  had  gone  with  him  a  little  way  she 
said  she  must  turn  back.  Dr.  Coutras  surmised  she 
was  afraid  to  go  farther  in  case  she  met  any  of  the 
people  from  the  village.  He  told  her  again  that  if 
she  wanted  him  she  had  only  to  send  and  he  would 
come  at  once. 


Chapter  LVI 

THEN  two  years  more  went  Ly,  or  perhaps 
three,  for  time  passes  imperceptibly  in  Tahiti, 
and  it  is  hard  to  keep  count  of  it;  but  at  last  a 
message  was  brought  to  Dr.  Coutras  that  Strickland 
was  dying.  Ata  had  waylaid  the  cart  that  took  the 
mail  into  Papeete,  and  besought  the  man  who  drove 
it  to  go  at  once  to  the  doctor.  But  the  doctor  was 
out  when  the  summons  came,  and  it  was  evening 
when  he  received  it.  It  was  impossible  to  start  at 
so  late  an  hour,  and  so  it  was  not  till  next  day  soon 
after  dawn  that  he  set  out.  He  arrived  at  Taravao, 
and  for  the  last  time  tramped  the  seven  kilometres 
that  led  to  Ata's  house.  The  path  was  overgrown, 
and  it  was  clear  that  for  years  now  it  had  remained 
all  but  untrodden.  It  was  not  easy  to  find  the  way. 
Sometimes  he  had  to  stumble  along  the  bed  of  the 
stream,  and  sometimes  he  had  to  push  through  shrubs, 
dense  and  thorny;  often  he  was  obliged  to  climb 
over  rocks  in  order  to  avoid  the  hornet-nests  that 
hung  on  the  trees  over  his  head.  The  silence  was 
intense. 

It  was  with  a  sigh  of  relief  that  at  last  he  came 
upon  the  little  unpainted  house,  extraordinarily  be- 
draggled now,  and  unkempt;  but  here  too  was  the 
same  intolerable  silence.  He  walked  up,  and  a  little 
boy,  playing  unconcernedly  in  the  sunshine,  started  at 
his  approach  and  fled  quickly  away:  to  him  the 
ftranger  was  the  enemy.     Dr.  Coutras  had  a  sense 

298 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  299 

tfiac  rhe  child  was  stealthily  watching  him  from  be- 
hind a  tree.  The  door  was  wide  open.  He  called 
out,  but  no  one  answered.  He  stepped  in.  He 
knocked  at  a  door,  but  again  there  was  no  answer. 
He  turned  the  handle  and  entered.  The  stench  that 
assailed  him  turned  him  horribly  sick.  He  put  his 
handkerchief  to  his  nose  and  forced  himself  to  go  in. 
(The  light  was  dim,  and  after  the  brilliant  sunshine  for 
a  while  he  could  see  nothing.  Then  he  gave  a  start. 
He  could  not  make  out  where  he  was.  He  seemed 
on  a  sudden  to  have  entered  a  magic  world.  He 
had  a  vague  impression  of  a  great  primeval  forest 
and  of  naked  people  walking  beneath  the  trees.  Then 
he  saw  that  there  were  paintings  on  the  walls. 

"Mon  Dieu,  I  hope  the  sun  hasn't  affected  me,"  he 
muttered. 

A  slight  movement  attracted  his  attention,  and  he 
saw  that  Ata  was  lying  on  the  floor,  sobbing  quietly. 

"Ata,"  he  called.    "Ata." 

She  took  no  notice.  Again  the  beastly  stench  al- 
most made  him  faint,  and  he  lit  a  cheroot.  His  eyes 
grew  accustomed  to  the  darkness,  and  now  he  was 
seized  by  an  overwhelming  sensation  as  he  stared 
at  the  painted  walls.  He  knew  nothing  of  pictures, 
but  there  was  something  about  these  that  extraordi- 
narily affected  him.  From  floor  to  ceiling  the  walls 
were  covered  with  a  strange  and  elaborate  composi- 
tion. It  was  Indescribably  wonderful  and  mysterious. 
It  took  his  breath  away.  It  filled  him  with  an  emo- 
tion which  he  could  not  understand  or  analyse.  He 
felt  the  awe  and  the  delight  which  a  man  might  feel 
who  watched  the  beginning  of  a  world.     It  was 


300  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

tremendous,  sensual,  passionate;  and  yet  there  was 
something  horrible  there,  too,  something  which  made 
him  afraid.  It  was  the  work  of  a  man  who  had 
delved  into  the  hidden  depths  of  nature  and  had 
discovered  secrets  which  were  beautiful  and  fearful 
too.  It  was  the  work  of  a  man  who  knew  things 
which  it  is  unholy  for  men  to  know.  There  was 
something  primeval  there  and  terrible.  It  was  not 
human.  It  brought  to  his  mind  vague  recollections  of 
black  magic.     It  was  beautiful  and  obscene. 

*'Mon  Diett,  this  is  genius." 

The  words  were  wrung  from  him,  and  he  did  not 
know  he  had  spoken. 

Then  his  eyes  fell  on  the  bed  of  mats  in  the  corner, 
and  he  went  up,  and  he  saw  the  dreadful,  mutilated, 
ghastly  object  which  had  been  Strickland.  He  was 
dead.  Dr.  Coutras  made  an  effort  of  will  and  bent 
over  that  battered  horror.  Then  he  started  vio- 
lently, and  terror  blazed  in  his  heart,  for  he  felt  that 
someone  was  behind  him.  It  was  Ata.  He  had  not 
heard  her  get  up.  She  was  standing  at  his  elbow, 
looking  at  what  he  looked  at. 

"Good  Heavens,  my  nerves  are  all  distraught,"  he 
said.    "You  nearly  frightened  me  out  of  my  wits." 

He  looked  again  at  the  poor  dead  thing  that  had 
been  man,  and  then  he  started  back  in  dismay. 

"But  he  was  blind." 

"Yes ;  he  had  been  blind  for  nearly  a  year." 


Chapter  LVII 

AT  that  moment  we  were  interrupted  by  the 
appearance  of  Madame  Coutras,  who  had 
been  paying  visits.  She  came  in,  like  a  ship 
in  full  sail,  an  imposing  creature,  tall  and  stout,  with 
an  ample  bust  and  an  obesity  girthed  in  alarmingly 
by  straight-fronted  corsets.  She  had  a  bold  hooked 
nose  and  three  chins.  She  held  herself  upright.  She 
had  not  yielded  for  an  instant  to  the  enervating  charm 
of  the  tropics,  but  contrariwise  was  more  active,  more 
worldly,  more  decided  than  anyone  in  a  temperate 
clime  would  have  thought  it  possible  to  be.  She  was 
evidently  a  copious  talker,  and  now  poured  forth  a 
breathless  stream  of  anecdote  and  comment.  She 
made  the  conversation  we  had  just  had  seem  far 
away  and  unreal. 

Presently  Dr.  Coutras  turned  to  me. 

"I  still  have  in  my  bureau  the  picture  that  Strick- 
land gave  me,"  he  said.  "Would  you  like  to  see 
it?" 

"Willingly." 

We  got  up,  and  he  led  me  on  to  the  verandah 
which  surrounded  his  house.  We  paused  to  look  at  the 
gay  flowers  that  rioted  in  his  garden. 

"For  a  long  time  I  could  not  get  out  of  my  head 
the  recollection  of  the  extraordinary  decoration  with 
which  Strickland  had  covered  the  walls  of  his  house,*' 
■he  said  reflectively. 

301 


302  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

I  had  been  thinking  of  it,  too.  It  seemed  to  me 
that  here  Strickland  had  finally  put  the  whole  ex- 
pression of  himself.  Working  silently,  knowing  that 
it  was  his  last  chance,  I  fancied  that  here  he  must 
have  said  all  that  he  knew  of  life  and  all  that  he 
divined.  And  I  fancied  that  perhaps  here  he  had 
at  last  found  peace.  The  demon  which  possessed  him 
was  exorcised  at  last,  and  with  the  completion  of 
the  work,  for  which  all  his  life  had  been  a  painful 
preparation,  rest  descended  on  his  remote  and  tor- 
tured soul.  He  was  willing  to  die,  for  he  had  fulfilled 
his  purpose. 

**What  was  the  subject?"  I  asked. 

"I  scarcely  know.  It  was  strange  and  fantastic.  It 
was  a  vision  of  the  beginnings  of  the  world,  the  Gar- 
den of  Eden,  with  Adam  and  Eve — que  sais-jef — it 
was  a  hymn  to  the  beauty  of  the  human  form,  male 
and  female,  and  the  praise  of  Nature,  sublime,  indif- 
ferent, lovely,  and  cruel.  It  gave  you  an  awful  sense 
of  the  infinity  of  space  and  of  the  endlessness  of  time. 
Because  he  painted  the  trees  I  see  about  me  every  day, 
the  cocoa-nuts,  the  banyans,  the  flamboyants,  the  al- 
ligator-pears, I  have  seen  them  ever  since  differently, 
as  though  there  were  in  them  a  spirit  and  a  mystery 
which  I  am  ever  on  the  point  of  seizing  and  which 
for  ever  escapes  me.  The  colours  were  the  colours 
familiar  to  me,  and  yet  they  were  different.  They 
had  a  significance  which  was  all  their  own.  And 
those  nude  men  and  women.  They  were  of  the  earth, 
and  yet  apart  from  it.  They  seemed  to  possess  some- 
thing of  the  clay  of  which  they  were  created,  and 
at  the  same  time  something  divine.     You  saw  man 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  303 

in  the  nakedness  of  his  primeval  instincts,  and  you 
were  afraid,  for  you  saw  yourself." 

Dr.  Coutras  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  smiled. 

"You  will  laugh  at  me.  I  am  a  materialist,  and 
I  am  a  gross,  fat  man — Falstaff,  eh? — the  lyrical 
mode  does  not  become  me.  I  make  myself  ridiculous. 
But  I  have  never  seen  painting  which  made  so  deep 
an  impression  upon  me.  Tenez,  I  had  just  the  same 
feehng  as  when  I  went  to  the  Sistine  Chapel  in  Rome. 
There  too  I  was  awed  by  the  greatness  of  the  man 
who  had  painted  that  ceiling.  It  was  genius,  and 
it  was  stupendous  and  overwhelming.  I  felt  small 
and  insignificant.  But  you  are  prepared  for  the  great- 
ness of  Michael  Angelo.  Nothing  had  prepared  me 
for  the  immense  surprise  of  these  pictures  in  a  native 
hut,  far  away  from  civilisation,  in  a  fold  of  the  moun- 
tain above  Taravao.  And  Michael  Angelo  is  sane 
and  healthy.  Those  great  works  of  his  have  the  calm 
of  the  sublime ;  but  here,  notwithstanding  beauty,  was 
something  troubling.  I  do  not  know  what  it  was. 
It  made  me  uneasy.  It  gave  me  the  impression  you 
get  when  you  are  sitting  next  door  to  a  room  that 
you  know  is  empty,  but  in  which,  you  know  not  why, 
you  have  a  dreadful  consciousness  that  notwithstand- 
ing there  is  someone.  You  scold  yourself;  you  know 
it  is  only  your  nerves — and  yet,  and  yet  ...  In 
a  little  while  it  is  impossible  to  resist  the  terror  that 
seizes  you,  and  you  are  helpless  In  the  clutch  of  an 
unseen  horror.  Yes;  I  confess  I  was  not  altogether 
sorry  when  I  heard  that  those  strange  masterpieces 
had  been  destroyed." 

"Destroyed?"  I  cried. 


S04  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

**Mais  Old;  did  you  not  know?" 

"How  should  I  know?  It  is  true  I  had  never 
heard  of  this  work;  but  I  thought  perhaps  it  had 
fallen  into  the  hands  of  a  private  owner.  Even  now 
there  is  no  certain  list  of  Strickland's  paintings." 

*'When  he  grew  blind  he  would  sit  hour  after 
hour  in  those  two  rooms  that  he  had  painted,  looking 
at  his  works  with  sightless  eyes,  and  seeing,  perhaps, 
more  than  he  had  ever  seen  in  his  life  before.  Ata 
told  me  that  he  never  complained  of  his  fate,  he  never 
lost  courage.  To  the  end  his  mind  remained  serene 
and  undisturbed.  But  he  made  her  promise  that  when 
she  had  buried  him — did  I  tell  you  that  I  dug  his 
grave  with  my  own  hands,  for  none  of  the  natives, 
would  approach  the  infected  house,  and  we  buried 
him,  she  and  I,  sewn  up  in  three  pareos  joined  to- 
gether, under  the  mango-tree — he  made  her  promise 
that  she  would  set  fire  to  the  house  and  not  leave 
it  till  it  was  burned  to  the  ground  and  not  a  stick 
remained." 

I  did  not  speak  for  a  while,  for  I  was  thinking. 
Then  I  said: 

"He  remained  the  same  to  the  end,  then." 

"Do  you  understand?  I  must  tell  you  that  I 
thought  it  my  duty  to  dissuade  her." 

"Even  after  what  you  have  just  said?" 

"Yes;  for  I  knew  that  here  was  a  work  of  genius, 
and  I  did  not  think  we  had  the  right  to  deprive  the 
world  of  it.  But  Ata  would  not  listen  to  me.  She 
had  promised.  I  would  not  stay  to  witness  the  bar- 
barous deed,  and  It  was  only  afterwards  that  I  heard 
what  she  had  done.    She  poured  paraffin  on  the  dry 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  305 

floors  and  on  the  pandanus-mats,  and  then  she  set 
fire.  In  a  little  while  nothing  remained  but  smoulder- 
ing embers,  and  a  great  masterpiece  existed  no  longer. 

"I  think  Strickland  knew  it  was  a  masterpiece.  He 
had  achieved  what  he  wanted.  His  life  was  com- 
plete. He  had  made  a  world  and  saw  that  It  was 
good.  Then,  In  pride  and  contempt,  he  destroyed, 
it." 

"But  I  must  show  you  my  picture,"  said  Dr. 
Coutras,  moving  on. 

"What  happened  to  Ata  and  the  child?" 

They  went  to  the  Marquesas.  She  had  relations 
there.  I  have  heard  that  the  boy  works  on  one  of 
Cameron's  schooners.  They  say  he  is  very  like  his 
father  In  appearance." 

At  the  door  that  led  from  the  verandah  to  the 
doctor's  consulting-room,  he  paused  and  smiled. 

"It  is  a  fruit-piece.  You  would  think  It  not  a 
very  suitable  picture  for  a  doctor's  consulting-room, 
but  my  wife  will  not  have  It  In  the  drawing-room.  She 
says  it  is  frankly  obscene." 

"A  fruit-piece!"  I  exclaimed  in  surprise. 

We  entered  the  room,  and  my  eyes  fell  at  once 
on  the  picture.     I  looked  at  it  for  a  long  time. 

It  was  a  pile  of  mangoes,  bananas,  oranges,  and  I 
know  not  what;  and  at  first  sight  It  was  an  innocent 
picture  enough.  It  would  have  been  passed  In  an 
exhibition  of  the  Post-Impressionists  by  a  careless  per- 
son as  an  excellent  but  not  very  remarkable  example 
of  the  school ;  but  perhaps  afterwards  It  would  come 
back  to  his  recollection,  and  he  would  wonder  why. 
I  do  not  think  then  he  could  ever  entirely  forget  it. 


306  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

The  colours  were  so  strange  that  words  can  hardly 
tell  what  a  troubling  emotion  they  gave.  They  were 
sombre  blues,  opaque  like  a  delicately  carved  bowl  in 
lapis  lazuli,  and  yet  with  a  quivering  lustre  that 
suggested  the  palpitation  of  mysterious  life;  there 
were  purples,  horrible  like  raw  and  putrid  flesh,  and 
yet  with  a  glowing,  sensual  passion  that  called  up 
vague  memories  of  the  Roman  Empire  of  Heliogaba* 
lus;  there  were  reds,  shrill  like  the  berries  of  holly 
— one  thought  of  Christmas  in  England,  and  the 
snow,  the  good  cheer,  and  the  pleasure  of  children — : 
and  yet  by  some  magic  softened  till  they  had  the 
swooning  tenderness  of  a  dove's  breast;  there  were 
deep  yellows  that  died  with  an  unnatural  passion  into 
a  green  as  fragrant  as  the  spring  and  as  pure  as  the 
sparkling  water  of  a  mountain  brook.  Who  can 
tell  what  anguished  fancy  made  these  fruits?  They 
belonged  to  a  Polynesian  garden  of  the  Hesperides. 
There  was  something  strangely  alive  in  them,  as 
though  they  were  created  in  a  stage  of  the  earth's 
dark  history  when  things  were  not  irrevocably  fixed 
to  their  forms.  They  were  extravagantly  luxurious. 
They  were  heavy  with  tropical  odours.  They  seemed 
to  possess  a  sombre  passion  of  their  own.  It  was 
enchanted  fruit,  to  taste  which  might  open  the  gateway 
to  God  knows  what  secrets  of  the  soul  and  to  mys- 
terious palaces  of  the  imaginaion.  They  were  sullen 
with  unawaited  dangers,  and  to  eat  them  might  turn 
a  man  to  beast  or  god.  All  that  was  healthy  and 
natural,  all  that  clung  to  happy  relationships  and  the 
simple  joys  of  simple  men,  shrunk  from  them  in 
dismay;  and  yet  a  fearful  attraction  was  in  them, 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  307 

and,  like  the  fruit  on  the  Tree  of  the  Knowledge 
of  Good  and  Evil  they  were  terrible  with  the  pos- 
sibilities of  the  Unknown. 

At  last  I  turned  away.  I  felt  that  Strickland  had 
kept  his  secret  to  the  grave. 

"Foyons,  Rene,  mon  ami,"  came  the  loud,  cheerful 
voice  of  Madame  Coutras,  "what  are  you  doing  all 
this  time?  Here  are  the  flpmVf/5.  Ask  Monsieur  \i 
he  will  not  drink  a  little  glass  of  Quinquina  Dubon- 
net." 

'^olontiers,  Madame,"  I  said,  going  out  on  to  the 
verandah. 

The  spell  was  broken. 


Chapter  LVIII 

THE  time  came  for  my  departure  from  Tahiti. 
According  to  the  gracious  custom  of  the  Island, 
presents  were  glv^en  me  by  the  persons  with 
whom  I  had  been  thrown  in  contact — baskets  made 
of  the  leaves  of  the  cocoa-nut  tree,  mats  of  pandanus, 
fans;  and  TIare  gave  me  three  little  pearls  and  three 
jars  of  guava-jelly  made  with  her  own  plump  hands. 
When  the  mail-boat,  stopping  for  twenty-four  hours 
on  Its  way  from  Wellington  to  San  Francisco,  blew 
the  whistle  that  warned  the  passengers  to  get  on 
board,  TIare  clasped  me  to  her  vast  bosom,  so  that 
I  seemed  to  sink  into  a  billowy  sea,  and  pressed  her 
red  lips  to  mine.  Tears  glistened  in  her  eyes.  And 
when  we  steamed  slowly  out  of  the  lagoon,  making 
our  way  gingerly  through  the  opening  In  the  reef, 
and  then  steered  for  the  open  sea,  a  certain  melan- 
choly fell  upon  me.  The  breeze  was  laden  still  with 
the  pleasant  odours  of  the  land.  Tahiti  is  very  far 
away,  and  I  knew  that  I  should  never  see  it  again. 
A  chapter  of  my  life  was  closed,  and  I  felt  a  little 
nearer  to  inevitable  death. 

Not  much  more  than  a  month  later  I  was  in  Lon- 
don; and  after  I  had  arranged  certain  matters  which 
claimed  my  immediate  attention,  thinking  Mrs.  Strick- 
land might  like  to  hear  what  I  knew  of  her  husband's 
last  years,  I  wrote  to  her.    I  had  not  seen  her  since 

308 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  309 

long  before  the  war,  and  I  had  to  look  out  her  ad- 
dress in  the  telephone-book.  She  made  an  appoint- 
ment, and  I  went  to  the  trim  little  house  on  Campden 
Hill  which  she  now  inhabited.  She  was  by  this  time 
a  woman  of  hard  on  sixty,  but  she  bore  her  years 
well,  and  no  one  would  have  taken  her  for  more  than 
fifty.  Her  face,  thin  and  not  much  lined,  was  of  the 
sort  that  ages  gracefully,  so  that  you  thought  in  youth 
she  must  have  been  a  much  handsomer  woman  than 
in  fact  she  was.  Her  hair,  not  yet  very  gray,  was 
becomingly  arranged,  and  her  black  gown  was  mod- 
ish. I  remembered  having  heard  that  her  sister,  Mrs. 
MacAndrew,  outliving  her  husband  but  a  couple  of 
years,  had  left  money  to  Mrs.  Strickland;  and  by 
the  look  of  the  house  and  the  trim  maid  who  opened 
the  door  I  judged  that  it  was  a  sum  adequate  to 
keep  the  widow  in  modest  comfort. 

When  I  was  ushered  into  the  drawing-room  I  found 
that  Mrs.  Strickland  had  a  visitor,  and  when  I  dis- 
covered who  he  was,  I  guessed  that  I  had  been  asked 
to  come  at  just  that  time  not  without  intention.  The 
caller  was  Mr.  Van  Busche  Taylor,  an  American,  and 
Mrs.  Strickland  gave  me  particulars  with  a  charming 
smile  of  apology  to  him. 

*'You  know,  we  English  are  so  dreadfully  ignorant. 
You  must  forgive  me  if  it's  necessary  to  explain." 
Then  she  turned  to  me.  "Mr.  Van  Busche  Taylor  is 
the  distinguished  American  critic.  If  you  haven't 
read  his  book  your  education  has  been  shamefully 
neglected,  and  you  must  repair  the  omission  at  once. 
He's  writing  something  about  dear  Charlie,  and  he's 
come  to  ask  me  if  I  can  help  him." 


810  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

Mr.  Van  Busche  Taylor  was  a  very  thin  man  with 
a  large,  bald  head,  bony  and  shining;  and  under  the 
great  dome  of  his  skull  his  face,  yellow,  with  deep 
lines  in  it,  looked  very  small.  He  was  quiet  and 
exceedingly  polite.  He  spoke  with  the  accent  of  New 
England,  and  there  was  about  his  demeanour  a  blood- 
less frigidity  which  made  me  ask  myself  why  on  earth 
he  was  busying  himself  with  Charles  Strickland.  I 
had  been  slightly  tickled  at  the  gentleness  which  Mrs. 
Strickland  put  into  her  mention  of  her  husband's 
name,  and  while  the  pair  conversed  I  took  stock  of 
the  room  in  which  we  sat.  Mrs.  Strickland  had 
moved  with  the  times.  Gone  were  the  Morris  papers 
and  gone  the  severe  cretonnes,  gone  were  the  Arundel 
prints  that  had  adorned  the  walls  of  her  drawing- 
room  in  Ashley  Gardens;  the  room  blazed  with  fan- 
tastic colour,  and  I  wondered  if  she  knew  that  those 
varied  hues,  which  fashion  had  imposed  upon  her, 
were  due  to  the  dreams  of  a  poor  painter  In  a  South 
Sea  island.    She  gave  me  the  answer  hei-self. 

"What  wonderful  cushions  you  have,"  said  Mr. 
Van  Busche  Taylor. 

"Do  you  like  them?"  she  said,  smiling.  "Bakst, 
you  know." 

And  yet  on  the  walls  were  coloured  reproductions 
of  several  of  Strickland's  best  pictures,  due  to  the 
enterprise  of  a  publisher  in  Berlin. 

"You're  looking  at  my  pictures,"  she  said,  follow- 
ing my  eyes.  "Of  course,  the  originals  are  out  of  my 
reach,  but  it*s  a  comfort  to  have  these.  The  pub- 
lisher sent  them  to  me  himself.  They're  a  great  con- 
solation to  me." 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  311 

"They  must  be  very  pleasant  to  live  with,"  said 
Mr.  Van  Busche  Taylor. 

"Yes;  they're  so  essentially  decorative." 

"That  is  one  of  my  profoundest  convictions,"  said 
Mr.  Van  Busche  Taylor.  "Great  art  is  always  decor- 
ative." 

Their  eyes  rested  on  a  nude  woman  suckling  a  baby, 
while  a  girl  was  kneeling  by  their  side  holding  out  a 
flower  to  the  indifferent  child.  Looking  over  them 
was  a  wrinkled,  scraggy  hag.  It  was  Strickland's 
version  of  the  Holy  Family.  I  suspected  that  for 
the  figures  had  sat  his  household  above  Taravao,  and 
the  woman  and  the  baby  were  Ata  and  his  first  son. 
I  asked  myself  if  Mrs.  Strickland  had  any  inkling  of 
the  facts. 

The  conversation  proceeded,  and  I  marvelled  at 
the  tact  with  which  Mr.  Van  Busche  Taylor  avoided 
all  subjects  that  might  have  been  in  the  least  em- 
barrassing, and  at  the  ingenuity  with  which  Mrs. 
Strickland,  without  saying  a  word  that  was  untrue, 
insinuated  that  her  relations  with  her  husband  had 
always  been  perfect.  At  last  Mr.  Van  Busche  Taylor 
rose  to  go.  Holding  his  hostess'  hand,  he  made  her 
a  graceful,  though  perhaps  too  elaborate,  speech  of 
thanks,  and  left  us. 

"I  hope  he  didn't  bore  you,"  she  said,  when  the 
door  closed  behind  him.  "Of  course  it's  a  nuisance 
sometimes,  but  I  feel  it's  only  right  to  give  people 
any  information  I  can  about  Charlie.  There's  a  cer- 
tain responsibility  about  having  been  the  wife  bf  a 
genius." 

She  looked  at  me  with  those  pleasant  eyes  of  hers, 


312  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

which  had  remained  as  candid  and  as  sympathetic  as 
they  had  been  more  than  twenty  years  before.  I 
wondered  if  she  was  making  a  fool  of  me. 

"Of  course  you've  given  up  your  business,"  I 
said. 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  answered  airily.  "I  ran  it  more 
by  way  of  a  hobby  than  for  any  other  reason,  and  my 
children  persuaded  me  to  sell  it.  They  thought  I  was 
overtaxing  my  strength." 

I  saw  that  Mrs.  Strickland  had  forgotten  that  she 
had  ever  done  anything  so  disgraceful  as  to  work 
for  her  living.  She  had  the  true  instinct  of  the  nice 
woman  that  it  is  only  really  decent  for  her  to  live 
on  other  people's  money. 

"They're  here  now,"  she  said.  "I  thought  they'd 
like  to  hear  what  you  had  to  say  about  their  father. 
You  remember  Robert,  don't  you?  I'm  glad  to  say 
he's  been  recommended  for  the  Military  Cross." 

She  went  to  the  door  and  called  them.  There 
entered  a  tall  man  in  khaki,  with  the  parson's  collar, 
handsome  in  a  somewhat  heavy  fashion,  but  with  the 
frank  eyes  that  I  remembered  in  him  as  a  boy.  He 
was  followed  by  his  sister.  She  must  have  been  the 
same  age  as  was  her  mother  when  first  I  knew  her, 
and  she  was  very  like  her.  She  too  gave  one  the 
impression  that  as  a  girl  she  must  have  been  prettier 
than  indeed  she  was. 

"I  suppose  you  don't  remember  them  in  the  least," 
said  Mrs.  Strickland,  proud  and  smiling.  "My 
daughter  is  now  Mrs.  Ronaldson.  Her  husband's  a 
Major  in  the  Gunners." 

"He's  by  way  of  being  a  pukka  soldier,  you  know," 


THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE  315 

said  Mrs.  Ronaldson  gaily.  "That's  why  he's  only 
a  Major." 

I  remembered  my  anticipation  long  ago  that  she 
would  marry  a  soldier.  It  was  inevitable.  She  had 
all  the  graces  of  the  soldier's  wife.  She  was  civil 
and  affable,  but  she  could  hardly  conceal  her  inti- 
mate conviction  that  she  was  not  quite  as  others 
were.     Robert  was  breezy. 

"It's  a  bit  of  luck  that  I  should  be  in  London 
w^hen  you  turned  up,"  he  said.  "I've  only  got  three 
days'  leave." 

"He's  dying  to  get  back,"  said  his  mother. 

"Well,  I  don't  mind  confessing  it,  I  have  a  rattling 
good  time  at  the  front.  I've  made  a  lot  of  good 
pals.  It's  a  first-rate  life.  Of  course  war's  terrible, 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing;  but  it  does  bring  out  the 
best  qualities  in  a  man,  there's  no  denying  that." 

Then  I  told  them  what  I  had  learned  about  Charles 
Strickland  in  Tahiti.  I  thought  it  unnecessary  to 
say  anything  of  Ata  and  her  boy,  but  for  the  rest 
I  was  as  accurate  as  I  could  be.  When  I  had  nar- 
rated his  lamentable  death  I  ceased.  For  a  minute 
or  two  we  were  all  silent.  Then  Robert  Strickland 
struck  a  match  and  lit  a  cigarette. 

*'The  mills  of  God  grind  slowly,  but  they  grind 
exceeding  small,"  he  said,  somewhat  Impressively. 

Mrs.  Strickland  and  Mrs.  Ronaldson  looked  down 
with  a  slightly  pious  expression  which  Indicated,  I 
felt  sure,  that  they  thought  the  quotation  was  from 
Holy  Writ.  Indeed,  I  was  unconvinced  that  Robert 
Strickland  did  not  share  their  Illusion.  I  do  not 
Know  why  I  suddenly  thought  of  Strickland's  son  byj 


S14,  THE  MOON  AND  SIXPENCE 

Ata.  They  had  told  me  he  was  a  merry,  light- 
hearted  youth.  I  saw  him,  with  my  mind's  eye,  on 
the  schooner  on  which  he  worked,  wearing  nothing 
but  a  pair  of  dungarees;  and  at  night,  when  the  boat 
sailed  along  easily  before  a  light  breeze,  and  the 
sailors  were  gathered  on  the  upper  deck,  while  the 
captain  and  the  supercargo  lolled  in  deck-chairs, 
smoking  their  pipes,  I  saw  him  dance  with  another 
lad,  dance  wildly,  to  the  wheezy  music  of  the  con- 
certina. Above  was  the  blue  sky,  and  the  stars,  and 
all  about  the  desert  of  the  Pacific  Ocean. 

A  quotation  from  the  Bible  came  to  my  lips,  but 
I  held  my  tongue,  for  I  know  that  clergymen  think 
it  a  little  blasphemous  when  the  laity  poach  upon 
their  preserves.  My  Uncle  Henry,  for  twenty-seven 
years  Vicar  of  Whitstable,  was  on  these  occasions 
in  the  habit  of  saying  that  the  devil  could  always 
quote  scripture  to  his  purpose.  He  remembered  the 
days  when  you  could  get  thirteen  Royal  Natives  for 
a  shilling. 


RETURN       CIRCULATION  DEPARTMENT 

TO  ■►       202  Main  Library 


LOAN  PERIOD  1 
HOME  USE 


ALL  BOOKS  MAY  BE  RECALLED  AFTER  7  DAYS 

1 -month  loans  may  be  renewed  by  calling  642-3405 

6-monfh  loans  may  be  recharged  by  bringing  books  to  Circulation  Desk 

Renewals  and  recharges  may  be  mode  4  days  prior  to  due  date 

DUE   AS  STAMPED  BELOW 


m.  cm  MAR  1  4  197« 


PEC  CiR  Ai)G  7    ^ 


AUTO.  DIS 


f\UG    6 


19)6 


FORM  NO   DD  6    40m   10'  77      UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  BERKELEY 

BERKELEY,  CA  94720 


®i 


(E4555sl0)476B 


HUU  lAuversify't>f  Gilifoniia 
Berkeley 

LOAN  DEPT. 


GENERAL  LIBRARY -U.C.  BERKELEY 


BQQDa7baMQ 


^'V»^^^ 


m  *    1    / 


